


Coming Back Around

by Merimias



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, M/M, Merry Christmas!, Shameless Big Bang, Takes place after season 7, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9002926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merimias/pseuds/Merimias
Summary: Big Bang 2016 Fanfic:It's been eight years since Mickey's been thrown in jail. Eight years since the unceremonious breaking of something once thought to be fated, and six since the unexpected road trip that Ian had thought to be the final end to their match. Hence, one would be forgiven for assuming that when Mickey and his daemon walked out of prison, free once more, that neither party would have anything to do with each other. After all, such a separation had to have been intended by a higher power or creator.Let's fix that.  Daemon!AU and an unashamed character exploration/fix-it fic.





	1. Really, Prisons are more Quaint Suggestions than Actual Things

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this is my addition to the Shameless Big Bang! It's really late because I was at camp, but what can you do. Merry Christmas and I hope this calms some of the Gallavich angst over the last season!

** Chapter 1: June 21st, Chicago **

Mickey is gone.

Seven years after he had been incarcerated for alleged attempted murder, Mandy had come back into the picture, roaring with a bloody vengeance. She’d spent a couple of months after coming back to Chicago pulling herself back together. She’d been kicked around, left behind, and used, first by Terry, then by Kenyatta. Then one day she had woken up, fire in her eyes, and decided that _that’s enough._ Mandy Milkovich was taking her life back into her own hands. She had gone to Urbana-Champaign, finished her education, gotten her law degree and passed the bar. She’d of course, done all of this via a very generous sponsor. Those sugar daddies really do help a girl pay for her college degree. All the while, she took every court case she studied, every legal loophole and litigation error, and used it to build the mother of all court cases for one Mickey Milkovich.

She’d kicked off her first job by launching an unholy war against the Court, a very _public_ war that got smeared all over the newspapers. It had started with an interview. All the reporters wanted to get a story from the Southside girl that had made her way up the ladder. What they got was pure, unadulterated drama. With tear-stained eyes, Mandy had recounted how the Milkoviches had gone downhill following the death of Anya Milkovich, how Terry had fallen apart and dragged everyone down with him. She had waxed eloquent about the odd jobs, the squirrel funds that she’d hidden away because _one day_. It was a smash hit. Blogs and news sites all over Chicago exploded at the sob story of a Southside girl that had pulled herself out from nothing. Public sympathy rose for the raven beauty, and she soon became the darling of the courts. _The Allen Poe of the Southside,_ they called her on account of her verbose language. Once she had the people secured nicely in her claws, she dropped the bombshell of Mickey Milkovich.

“Seven years ago, my brother was imprisoned on trumped up charges. I couldn’t do anything back then, no one would listen to some Southside trash,” she told a news reporter. She’d appeared all over the evening news the next day: _Local girl takes court to task._

“ _This_ is why I became a lawyer, so that one day I could look at the boy that helped me stay on my feet, and for once in my life, be a good sister.”

From there came campaigns, blogs, petitions, all from a public that just loved the ‘underdog’ story. Social Justice Blogs raged at the injustice, and slowly the outrage grew like a flame. Soon it was a cacophony of anger, and like the pro that she was, the valkyrie that was Mandy Milkovich played them all like a very quaint fiddle.

Of course, the Gallaghers had been swept up in the battle. Hell, the whole of Canaryville had. Mandy had held a session in the Alibi, ready to beg, barter, or just outright threaten to get her way. She’d stood on the bar table with her brothers, Odin, her crow, perched on her shoulder, only to be beaten down mercilessly by the unforgiving mob. _We aren’t your pity case,_ people had yelled. _We don’t want attention from the cops,_ others had cried. Nobody had wanted to compromise themselves for a wayward thug. It was as simple as that. The consensus? Like always, any idea from a Milkovich was a bad idea. Mandy had been left without a leg to stand on, her case quite possibly doomed to failure without any support from the community that knew Mickey the best.

Then Lip and Bagheera had approached her, daemon and human both fixing Mandy with a determined glare.

 _The Gallaghers have spent too long ignoring you Milkoviches,_ they’d said. _We all knew what was happening, but we left you to rot, even after all you did for us. We aren’t doing that anymore,_ they’d said.

 _If this is how we can fight back against those Northside asshats, we’ll do it. What do you need us to do_? Was it needlessly dramatic? Yeah. Was it ridiculously sentimental to the point of suicidal? Yeah. Was it the Gallagher, chaos-ridden, bulldozer way?

Hell fucking yeah.

So she’d rallied her troops. Lip and Debbie, the only two Gallaghers to enter college, used their clout at their universities stir sympathy. Kev and V used their bartender status to spread the word. Funny how far a couple of beers would go in changing someone’s opinion. Those with aerial daemons whispered to other sympathetic ears. A quiet rebellion was formed, one that was thankfully legal. It had to be, if Mickey were to have any chance of being freed.

Ian had not been involved in the lé resistánce. At least, not overtly. He couldn’t anyway, not without risking his relationship with Caleb. _Your family’s supporting this farce?_ He’d asked one morning over steaming cups of coffee, his voice laced with incredulity. _This is the man that basically abused you, right?_

See, in the seven years they had been together, Ian had spent the large bulk of his time avoiding recounting his past to Caleb, up to and including Mickey Milkovich. Especially Mickey Milkovich. It was too painful, too confusing. Whenever the topic was broached, Ian would default to his go-to; that Mickey was a thug, and had treated him like how a thug would treat anyone he loved. Of course, Caleb ate the wounded puppy story up, hook, line and sinker. Especially since it was Ian that had come running and crying back to him after Trevor ended in disaster. After, Mickey. When Ian’d finally realised his mistake, he’d opted to pretend it had never happened in the first place. He doesn’t know when he started believing it was true.

He doesn’t know how, one Sunday, he opened his door to Mandy’s pleading face.

“Please Ian, of everyone, you knew him best.” She’d said, over the cup of tea that Ian had whipped up. _Tea._ There was a time where his standard answer to a drink was a can of beer. Caleb had shot down that habit years ago. _No sense in drinking in the afternoon Ian, it’s not respectable._

Odin’s on the table, his claws clacking against the white marble as he pecks at the bowl of minced beef he’d brought out for him. “We understand that things ended badly between the two of you, but please, out of everyone, you knew him the best.”

“If you have anything that can help the case, things about the police and court cases, anything at all, we really need it.” He looks at Ian with beady eyes, open and trusting. Just like how Mickey used to. He knows what they expect, that he’d agree and testify or give a statement or give some sort of statement that would vindicate Mickey. That he’d. Help.

He doesn’t know when he became able to look Mandy right in the eye, and tell her that Mickey could fend for himself. She’d punched him for that.

That night, he dreamed of Mickey. He dreamed of warm arms and _I love you_ , and when he woke up, he woke up to Caleb’s suffocation and a churning maelstrom of emotions. _Your fault_ , the voices in the dark whispered. _Not mine,_ his conscious mind yelled back into the abyss. The next morning, he’d leaked a little piece of information to Lip, in confidence of course. Something honestly innocuous, probably wouldn’t matter. Hell, it might even make the case worse, for all Ian knew, or cared.

_Mickey was imprisoned without trial._

This was not something any of the other Gallaghers knew. Ian had been slated to give a statement at the police station, but had been told at the desk that it was no longer necessary. He’d put two and two together from there.  

So that was how, eight years to the day after he’d been imprisoned, Mickey had been released as a free man, his slate almost entirely wiped clean. Ian’d stood outside the prison all day, waiting for the greasy thug to waltz out of the gates like he’d never been gone in in the first place, Teru loping by his side like the Arctic Grey Wolf she was, all swagger and reckless charm. He’d see Ian and Ian’d apologise, and they’d hug, Adhair would leap into Teru’s fur, and everything would be _right_ again. _Why did he care?_ He waited for Mickey to walk out, because he _needed_ Mickey to walk out. _Why did he need Mickey to walk out?_

Except Mickey never did.

Ian waited till the sky turned dark and the stars came out and not once did he catch a glimpse of the crystal-blue eyes he wanted to see. Not even the faintest flash of greasy black hair could be detected, nor any sign of that familiar snowy white pelt.

He didn’t give up there, of course. No self-respecting Gallagher would. So he called up the prison, talked to the guards, everything. They’d said Mickey had checked himself out hours earlier and walked off to parts unknown with Mandy by his side.

Ian doesn’t want to think about what that means, because _he said he’d wait_. It’s Mickey’s fault. Eight years and all Ian could think about was him standing on that porch. Telling Mickey that they were done. He doesn’t want to remember Mickey’s stricken face, and Teru’s quiet whimper and how that didn’t even _phase_ him. He doesn’t want to think about how he didn’t chase Mickey later, when Sammi was shooting at him like a woman possessed, her Mockingbird screeching like a banshee. He doesn’t want to know what he was thinking. He doesn’t want to know why he pushed Mickey away. He doesn’t want to think about the prison-visit, about him struggling with his emotions because it was all so familiar and yet it wasn’t.

Ian doesn’t want to think at all, so he doesn’t.

In another time, in the days of yesteryear, they’d sat in the same position, Mickey behind the glass and Ian behind the phone. He’d made Mickey smile then, saw the boy biting the inside of his cheek to stop the twitch of his lips. He watched as Teru gave him the faintest smile from her place by Mickey’s side, and all Ian could think was that this was where he should be. _You say that again I’ll rip your fucking tongue off_ , he’d said then, and all Ian wanted was for him to say it back, because it would have meant that he and Adhair had mattered. Hell, it was never hearing it that made him walk away in the first place, off to the army where a vicious Least Weasel makes for a perfect daemon and leaving a broken Mickey behind.

 _Been thinking ‘bout ya,_ he’d said, a lifetime later, and Ian knew that this was everything he’s ever wanted with Mickey but he just. Couldn’t. So he’d lied and pushed Mickey away, just like Mickey had done to him. He didn’t take the money, not really. When Svetlana started counting the bills he told her to keep it and stalked away from her car, ignoring the speculative look her lion, Borot’ba, shot him. He regretted his decision later when he’d been stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere with no way to get home. He’d shown up at the Gallagher doorstep the next morning, having missed his meds and breathing heavily because he’d just walked non-stop, carrying a nigh comatose Adhair in his arms, for eight fucking hours. He’d stayed at home for the rest of the day.

As he wanders back home on wayward feet, he silently berates himself for being so weak. He'd gone without any hint to Caleb, with only Fiona knowing of his sudden departure. He'd let himself open up the mental box in his head, and as always, Mickey Milkovich would be there to wreck his emotional state. There was blatant proof. Adhair had barely spoken a word since the morning, to the point of it being mildly worrying.

Lip says it’s not his fault, Fiona says he’s not to blame, his therapist tells him that it’s unhealthy to flagellate himself, that it’s the disorder’s fault, and Ian knows it’s true. He had no part in Mickey being too hung up on him. That’s his problem, that was their relationship. Their relationship was like coal, rough until pressure was put on it, slowly creating a shining diamond. Then Mickey had gone fucking Dr Phil and crushed the diamond with his bare hands. He took something shining and bright and pushed at it until it was nothing but ash in his mouth, and he’ll never forgive himself for that. It’s not really Ian’s fault. It was the Bipolar Disorder, everything was fine before that. It was Mickey’s fault, for never knowing what he needed. Really, when you think about it, Mickey was kind of abusive. Mickey had beat him up before and threatened him on multiple occasions. Really, it was better with Caleb than with Mickey. Really.

_You’re a coward. You’re afraid of your father, you’re afraid of your wife, you’re afraid to be who you are._

Thing about irony, it’s kind of a bitch.

Okay, so he and Caleb really didn’t fit. He just, doesn’t really have anyone else, anyone that would be willing to deal with all of Ian’s baggage. Not since Trevor turned his back on Ian. So he goes back to Caleb, to the apartment that they share, and lying in bed wishing that it was Mickey on the other side. When Caleb wraps an arm around him to draw him closer he tries not to flinch. When Caleb nuzzles into his shoulder he fights the urge to scream. When he wakes up the next morning and sees the sunlight reflecting off the ring on his finger, a simple gold band, he feels the old Southside urge to burn everything to the ground, and laugh at the flames as they lick the sky.

It’s torture, pretending to smile as Caleb wraps his arms around Ian’s waist as a substitute a hello. He lets the man give him a peck on the cheek, and waits for his car to disappear around the bend before he practically bolts out of the apartment, heading to the only place he’s ever called home.

_Lies. You had another home once._

* * *

 

“Well, you can’t have expected him to wait,” Fiona says as they wash the dishes that afternoon. It’s a weekend, but none of the Gallaghers are in except Fiona and Liam, so it’s high time for some sibling heart to heart. Of all the Gallagher siblings, Fiona’s changed the least, but it’s for the better really. She’d taken a year off to find herself, after spending years being whatever the household needed. She’d packed her bags one morning, left a note and enough cash to cover them for the next couple of months, and spent that time going where the wind had blown.

She’d returned to the Gallagher doorstep a year later, skin tanned but eyes dancing with a life that had never been there in all the time Ian had known his elder sister. In that year, she had visited every state in the America, and even a couple in Canada. _After growing up here, not much can phase you,_ she’d laughed, mouth curling into pure merriment as she recounted everything to a rapt household. She’d returned to her matronly duties afterwards, but every so often she’d tell Ian or Lip to hold the fort, and disappear for a week or two. It came without rhyme or reason, but she’d always say exactly where she was going, and come back with even more stories.

Ian isn't sure whether he's jealous or not.

“But I said I’d wait. I just, don’t get it.” Ian trails off, because there’s really nothing to say beyond that. _Lies_ , his backstabbing mind tells him, like he doesn’t know. Like how he’d thrown away everything just for a few happy days, only to get cold feet at the very end. Sometimes he still wonders, whether Mickey would have made it to Mexico if he was there with him. Maybe Ian could have charmed his way through before the officer noticed the convict. In any case, the time for waiting was long, long over. Adhair burrows a little more into his hoodie.

Fiona’s Meerkat, Curam, sighs from his perch on the fridge. “You said you’d wait, but did you ever back it up? Did you ever visit him? Before or after?” he questions pointedly, each word hitting Ian like a bullet to the chest. He chalks it up to the meds.  “In those 8 years, barring a few days, did you ever let him know that you cared?”

Ian’s hands tighten around the dish he’s scrubbing, putting it down with a sharp _thud_ before he can do something stupid like hurl it at the fridge. It doesn’t matter that it was his tip-off that earnt Mickey his freedom, it really doesn’t. “Since when did you care about Mickey?” he challenges, “y’know, ‘cause I could’ve sworn you guys _hated_ him.” Both of them understand the unspoken accusation. _Why did you support the case. Why do you care._

Comments like ‘set a match to your life’ don’t really go unforgotten.

“Ian, it was - different back then,” Fiona placates, glaring at Curam slightly. Ian knows Curam’s always been Fiona’s mouthpiece, saying the things she never would. It was him that convinced Fiona to finally take some time off to think about what she wanted, and it was him that had functioned as a pseudo father-figure when Frank turned out to be useless. On some level he appreciates Curam, with his no-nonsense attitude and semi-permanent scowl. Just, not now.

“I never said I didn’t _like_ Mickey, I just thought you could’ve done better than him,” she continues, delicate fingers deftly polishing each plate to a shining perfection borne from years of practice. Well, that’s a fine way to put it.

“You were assholes to him!” Ian shoots, more out of sheer attitude than anything else.

She replies without a beat. “And he was an asshole back.”

“Oh yeah? What changed?”

She places the dish on the rack. “You did,” she says, and oh,  _there it is_. A yawning chasm opens where his stomach should be, and his fingers scrabble at the counter for support before his legs give way. He thinks he should be glad Fiona isn’t dancing around his disorder, like she used to, but the memories of those early days still shake him. A confusing mess of emotions and disjointed feelings that resolved into a black and blue fog. Black haired fog. Blue eyed fog.

She reaches a hand to squeeze his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?” she asks. He’s vaguely aware of Curam leaping off the fridge, scampering over the counter to twine his way around Ian’s palms. He runs his fingers through the meerkat’s rough fur, letting the contact ground him.

They’re both well-used to his mood-swings by now, as well as his anxiety attacks. Even on his best days he’s mercurial, and he’s really not sure what that says about him as a person, but he tables the self-doubt for a later date. “Yeah,” he says, pulling himself back together and reaching out for another plate to wash.

“What was that about Mickey?” He presses, because emotional breakdowns aside, he _needs to know_.

“Well, it wasn’t just you, but when you first got diagnosed, we all thought that he’d give up within a couple of weeks,” she continues uncertainly, eyeing him for his reaction.  “I mean, Mickey Milkovich? Being a nurse? Get real.” She gives a laugh at that. It rings hollow in Ian’s ears.

"None of us ever thought Mickey would have the patience for it. Frankly, none of us ever thought  _any_ of the Milkoviches could be capable of that level of devotion. We figured he'd put up with you for a couple weeks, and then shove you back to us when he got tired." There, Fiona stops for a little while. "Maybe, back then, we were so wrapped up in our own drama that we were just happy to get someone else to take care of another of our many problems." She shoots Ian an apologetic look, but he waves it off. Water under the bridge, that.  

“But he didn’t give up. He just kept at it, and when he couldn’t handle it on his own he came to us for help. Now _that’s_ real love, ‘cause Mickey Milkovich asking someone for help is something I’d pay money to see again.” She says, and Ian remembers. Somewhere in the dark mess, he remembers. He remembers Mickey’s worried face, chewing at his lip as he watched Ian check himself in, the feeling of Mickey breaking through his fog-ridden state, as he gripped the back of Ian’s neck, Teru rubbing her head against Ian’s thigh.

“Time does a lot too, Ian. It’s been eight years since we last heard from either Milkovich, and that means that I can look at things better now. We weren’t fair to Mickey.” She chuckles at that. “Weren’t fair to you either, come to think of it.”

“Foisting you onto Mickey like that, then expecting him to make do, like he would magically understand. Then blaming him because it was _easier?_ Nah, I like to think I’ve outgrown that by now.” 

“Maybe that’s why we helped Mandy out for the case,” she muses, more to herself. “Cause no matter how you look at it, Mickey and Mandy are practically family, and we don’t abandon family.” _We don’t abandon family._

Ian balks, and he snaps back purely on instinct. “He was in there for seven years before you decided to grow a conscience y’know.” He says, as he studiously polishes another dish. Fiona just gives him a sideways glance, and he knows he’s being a hypocrite.

“Ian, you can’t expect him to have waited, when you never showed that you were going to. He came back, and even then you didn’t commit.” Curam chides gently, nudging Ian’s arm slightly. “Not that it wasn’t foolish to abandon us without so much as a note, but still.” He adds. The problem is, he knows Curam’s right. He doesn’t have anything to fight that, because Mickey’s gone now. Gone somewhere without Ian. He’s moved on, and that’s _fine._

“Hey,” Fiona’s voice shakes him out of his reverie slightly. She cups his face in her hands, and for the first time he wonders when he became taller than the Gallagher matriarch. “You’ve got a good thing going with Caleb right? I mean, you’re finally in a stable relationship! That’s really exciting! Don’t dwell on Mickey anymore if you don’t want to, okay? That’s all in the past, yeah?” She says. Ian gives a bitter laugh at that, watching Fiona’s features twist into a confused frown.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, releasing Ian as he backs away from her. “You don’t love Caleb?”

Ian’s face gives her all the answer she needs.

“Oh, baby,” she sighs, sweeping Ian into an embrace, because of all people Ian knows she understands what it’s like to be trapped in that sort of relationship, when you’re scared to let go because you don’t think there’d be anyone else willing to catch you if you fall. The kind of relationship where you feel trapped, but trapped is so much better than waking up alone because _alone_ is when your demons come out to play, jeering as they break you down piece by piece. Of all the Gallaghers, Fiona understands that the best. Ian holds out for all of two seconds before he feels the tears dripping down his face, and he buries himself further into Fiona’s worn, woolly sweater. He feels Adhair crawl out of his hoodie, creeping onto his shoulder as he shudders with grief in a silent gesture of mutual emotion.

“He-we need to find Mickey.” Ian chokes, and he can hear the twisted smile in his own voice. It’s all so fucked up. Why does he care. _Why does he care?_ He shouldn’t, _he doesn’t_ , so why is he crying? He shouldn’t miss him, but, he can feel the grief wracking his body, real as if Mickey had truly died and left him alone. Waves of emotion wrack him as he feels himself tumbling down into warm arms. He feels Fiona slowly guiding him to the couch, sitting him down on it and letting him break down into her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she sighs again.

“I really think we do.”

 


	2. In Which Debbie Gallagher is an Unholy Demon

** Chapter 2: June 30th, Chicago**

The Gallaghers are not sympathetic to Ian at first, not at all.

“-and why should we help you again?” Debbie all but yells, her hands slamming down on the dinner table as her eyes blaze with an eldritch fire. “You didn’t even care about him when we were trying to get him out of that shithole, and now you want us to help you find him?”

It’s just Debbie, Fiona, Lip, and Ian this time. It’s Saturday, and that means a family dinner, minus the youngling. Liam’s gone over to a friends’ for a thankfully convenient sleepover, and Carl’s long since moved to Canada. Less likely to kill someone there. Honestly all of them think it’s for the best. Besides, he sends them texts about the bodies that come through the morgue every so often, so it’s not like they don’t know what he’s up to.

Eight years have done a lot to Ian’s sister, changing her from a hormonal teenager into a surprisingly well-adjusted young woman with blazing red hair to match the fire of her personality. She’s a college girl now, having somehow made it into the University of Chicago on a scholarship in Mass Communication, later graduating with honours to become an investigative journalist. Lip had had a coronary when he found out that his baby sister had outdone him in the academic department, but Debbie had told him to suck it up. She’s also become _terrifying,_ which is ironic given that her daemon, Teine, is a Dormouse.

“Debbie, it’s more complicated than that-” Fiona tries to placate, but she’s cut off.

“No Fiona, don’t cover for him. I want to hear it from _his_ mouth.” Debbie demands, and in the face of a woman that somehow managed to completely whistle blow a poaching syndicate, even the Gallagher matriarch must step down. Ian suspects from the animosity in her voice that it extends beyond just protectiveness of Mickey. The look in her eyes-

-she _knows._ All of it.

“Does anyone want my opinion?” A wizened drunk moans from his semi-permanent seat on the couch. It goes ignored, and the voice does not interrupt again. Ian’s not even sure it was there to begin with.

Debbie the leans forward, hands instinctively reaching for a pen and pad. “Now Ian. The _truth_.” She states, voice clear and sharp. Ian shivers, and on the table, he can see Adhair doing the same. _The instructors at Basic weren’t this bad._

Still, Ian is her older brother. He will _not_ be talked down on. “I recommend you don’t raise your voice at me, _Debs_.” He says, pointedly emphasizing her name. “As for why, it’s none of your fucking business, that’s what.”

Debbie reels back slightly, and her rigid posture eases somewhat. “You know, even after all this time, sometimes you still sound like him.” Her eyes shine slightly, and for a brief second they show a wellspring of untold grief. In them, Ian can see the _what could have been_ , her own little hopes and dreams that had never gone anyway. He sees her baby, and he sees Mickey. Then it’s gone, hidden behind the quiet strength she’s always had. He fights a twinge of annoyance. It’s no business of Debbie’s to judge him and Mickey. It was their story, and theirs alone.

“Sound like who.”

Debbie just _looks_ at him. “You know who, Ian.” Her voice is laced with pity, like Ian is some poor child to be condescended to. It infuriates and angers him. Yet before he can retort, it is Adhair that speaks first.

“Shut up.” He growls, his body practically vibrating.

“Make me.”

“That depends. You’ve never displayed an off-switch for your bitching before.” Adhair bites. It’s juvenile, but it hits its mark.

“Why you-“

“Hey hey! Watch it, the both of you!” Fiona interjects, physically stepping between Debbie and Adhair. As if that would stop the two of them if they really went at it. Still, it reminds them who and where they are.

 _Gallaghers are special in that regard,_ Ian thinks. _We can hug each other in one breath and murder each other in the next. Sometimes we do both at the same time._

“If you want to fight, you take it outside. We do _not_ have the money for a new TV.” Fiona orders, her eyebrows pressed in a grim line. Ian wonders when they had made a rule for in-house fighting.

“Yes _mom._ ” Debbie sing-songs, stressing the _mom_ and dragging out the syllable.

Fiona just smirks. “Unless you want Monica to rise from the grave and finally do her job, I’m the best you’ve got.” She says, smirking as she places both hands on her hips. “So deal.”

“Don’t you talk about your mother like that!” The wizened voice yells again. Ian guesses he’s close to passing out, given the slur. Once again, no reply is given, and the voice falls into silence.

“In any case-” She turns to Ian and Adhair, “-Put a leash on your attitude. I know that this isn’t easy, but this household has had enough dysfunctional behaviour to last me through to hell.”

“…Fiona, I think you meant heaven.” Ian tries.

“Nope. I meant hell.” She chirps, deftly ignoring Adhair’s sullen glare. “I’ve done enough shit to know that I’ll be welcomed to the fire and brimstone with glee. I’ll roast kebabs and fall asleep to the screams of the damned. I’ll even save a spot next to the fires for you!” It’s an obvious deflection, but it loosens the grim tension in the air, and the atmosphere fades into something easier. At least, one that isn’t analogous to a gang war.

Curam hops down from Fiona’s shoulder onto the table, making sure he has both Ian and Debbie’s attention. “Now, both of you are going to sit down, and we are going to talk like actual adults, since by this point, we all are.” He says, his tone brokering no disagreement.

Adhair sulks, and slowly slinks back to Ian, settling himself against the crook of Ian’s arm on the table. He doesn’t say much after that, just gives pointed glares to Debbie when he thinks she isn’t looking. Given the unimpressed glare she gives Ian for it, he can’t say Adhair’s very successful.

“Alright,” Debbie says, folding her arms. “Give me one good reason to help you on this goose-chase. Just one, and I’ll do it.”  

“Ian was the one that told me about the trial.” Lip says, his calm voice easily carrying over both the frightened squeaks of Teine and Curam’s faint warning growl for civility. He’s older now, more worn. Alcoholism had all but destroyed his academic career a couple of years after Ian had been diagnosed, leaving him a battered waste. Ian will never forget the stumbling Bagheera, wide-eyed and incoherent, desperately trying to lead him to Lip’s unconscious body. Ian had found him, passed out in an alleyway in the pool of his own sick. Dark shadows had clung to Lip, enveloping him and hiding him from view like a malevolent miasma. He wasn’t even sure if he was alive, until Adhair had sniffed him and demanded for an ambulance.

Then the Gallaghers had banded once more to pull him back together. They’d packed him off to rehab, just like they’d packed Ian off to the shrink, and told Lip to get his act together. Years later, he’d graduated from Boston University on scholarship, working double jobs to make ends meet, majoring in biology and specialising in neuroscience. _I need to understand addiction_ , Lip had told him once, while sharing a smoke on the Gallagher porch. _I need to understand why_.

Ian can understand that, the need to understand why your body and mind betrays you like that. Your body is the temple of God, so the Bible says. So what does that make the diseases of the heart? Of the mind? Maybe that’s why he’s here now, standing behind Ian. Or maybe that’s just always been what he’s done, and Ian’s never noticed.

“So?” Debbie folds her arms. She’s radiating defiance like a miniature sun. _Fuck you and everything you stand for._ She’s clearly been spending far too much time around the Milkoviches. Inside the folds of her coat, Ian can see where her Dormouse, Teine, is curled up in. Timid little thing, how did her bonded become such an unholy terror?

“I know where he is.” Like that, all attention was now on her. Any person with half an ounce of sanity would have the good sense to quail before the combined focus of the Gallaghers. Not so for Debbie.

“But, I’m not telling Ian.” She continues, sing-song, with an air of triumph. Even after all this time, Ian can still read it in the tilt of her head. _Ha ha, I know something you don’t know~_

Lip narrows his eyes. “Debbie, don’t be diffi-”

“If you say ‘don’t be difficult’ Lip, I will ram my pink high heels so far up your ass people will think it’s your _tongue_.” She knifes, whipping around to fix her eyes on the Gallagher patriarch.

“-I was going to say, ‘don’t be diffident’, but yes, by all means, continue.”

“If Ian can’t give me a proper reason to find Mickey, I’m not about to sit around and guide him to Mickey’s doorstep just to ruin his life again. If you want him, then find him yourself.” She turns around, and that’s the end of the conversation, leaving Ian somewhere between understanding and _seething_. Slowly, the topics change to other, less charged issues, though Fiona keeps shooting Ian concerned looks as she helps Debbie prepare dinner. Then Lip catches his eye, and he gives a minute jerk of his head. _Come on, let’s talk outside._

When Ian steps out the back door, Lip’s lying spread-eagled on the lawn, his head pillowed on Bagheera’s belly. “Hey, join in on the slumber party.” He says, as Ian makes his way over to flop down next to him, hands running through the Panther’s short, midnight black fur. Within seconds, he finds the sweet spot on the small of the Jungle Cat’s neck, and kneads the area as the Panther purrs in contentment. Above them, the stars still shine, ever-present and ever-silent watchers. He wonders what they’d think of him.

Next to him, Lip raises an eyebrow and his lips quirk slightly. _So what do you think that was?_

Ian huffs, and just keeps kneading. _No idea man. Debbie’s scary._

Another eyebrow rises to join the first. _Yeah, no kidding._

Irish twins. Children that are born less than twelve months away from each other. Not quite twins, hell, half-brothers at best, but close enough; and as with any good set of twins, nonverbal communication is a skill they’d picked up very quickly. Ian remembers the games when they were young, just holding entire conversations using minute cues and meaningful stares. Years later, Debbie had confessed that she’d spent the first few years of her life thinking that two of her brothers were mute. As they had grown older, the nonverbal conversations faded into antiquity, but the easy familiarity still remained, even when Lip went off to college for the first time.

When Ian had visited Lip in the centre, he’d been greeted by a shell of a man. Withdrawn, sullen, and entirely unwilling to hold anything amounting to a decent conversation. Not even Fiona had been able to draw more than a sentence out of him. Ian had wondered then, if this is what he had been like when he was depressed. From Fiona’s unsurprised sighs, he’d suspected that had been the case. In any case, he’d gone back on his own a couple of times, and slowly, the unspoken language had become a steady constant between the two of them, slowly drawing Lip out of the dark place he’d fallen into.

After Lip had been released, a different man in many respects, the secret language stayed. By now it’s more a habit than anything, a constant in the chaos of Gallagher life. There will always be a Lip, and there will always be an Ian. Some days, when Ian gets the lingering urge to run again, he remembers that and thinks it’s enough. At least, to stay for, at least.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Lip fishes about his pocket, producing a lighter. He then holds a hand out in silent expectation. A faint smile graces his expression when Ian sighs and produces a cigarette packet of his own. A little secret he keeps from Caleb, since the man hates the smell of cigarette smoke.

He takes two out of the packet, and offers one to Ian. _You okay?_

Ian takes the cigarette with only the faintest tremor. _I don’t know._

Then they lapse into silence for another couple of minutes, just basking in each other’s company. Adhair slowly makes his way off Ian’s lap, and crawls onto Lip. Lip raises an eyebrow fractionally, but strokes the weasel anyway. It's not often that Adhair seeks out physical comfort that isn't his own. Beneath them is warm grass and earth, and above them is the vast expanse of nocturne abyss. It’s not often they get to do this anymore, what with Ian living Northside. Sure, Lip’s research facility isn’t far away, but well-

Caleb isn’t fond of visitors.

“Why _do_ you need to find him anyway?” Lip’s dry voice pierces the night sky like an arrow.

Ian doesn’t reply. That secret he will hold close to his chest. The faint memory of sad blue eyes that imprisoned itself in his mind as the Jeep drove away. The reason why he and Trevor broke up in the first place. Of course they know he  _left,_ but not the specifics. He keeps that to himself

“You know we know what’s going on right?” Bagheera says.

“You spent a whole lot of time trying to forget what happened, and now it’s come back to bite you, and you don’t know how to handle it because it’s easier to pretend that it was all Mickey’s fault, right?”

Silence.

Lip snorts. “Yeah. I thought so.” Even though he doesn’t know the details, Lip still gets under his guard. It’s always been like that between the two of them. Ian knows Lip’s weak links and Lip knows Ian’s. That’s how brothers work.

They stay like that for a little longer, before Lip stubs out his cigarette and rolls to his feet.

“Do you still love him?” He asks, squatting by Ian’s side. His eyes are clear, focused on Ian the same way one might an interesting species of fern.

Ian gestures to the night sky, and lets that be his answer. Confusing. Messy. Chaotic. People like to make meanings out of it, pretending it actually makes sense, but really it’s bullshit. No constellations. Just stars. Random, disjointed stars.

Lip heaves a sigh. He gets it. “Well, either way, I’ll help. Just, don’t fuck up, and don’t let him fuck you up either.”

Ian glances over at Lip. “What makes you think I’ll be the one fucking him up?”

“Ian, you meet a lot of people in rehab.” Lip says. “One of the first things you learn is that there are all sorts. Some of them are fine, most of them are assholes, and Mickey is certainly part of that latter category.”

“Still, he’s a sensitive guy.” He makes a face at that. “Don’t tell him I said that if you ever see him.”

“Will do.”

Lip gives a smirk, and continues. “Anyway, he’s the kind of guy that feels deep shit, but will never admit it.” He shifts slightly, angling his face away from Ian to look at the stars. Ian blows out another stream of smoke. “You know, we saw him, after you left for the army.”

Ian’s eyebrows raise. He hasn’t heard about this one yet. “Yeah?” Adhair asks, his head arched in curiosity.

Lip doesn’t continue, just keeps looking at the stars. He gets like this sometimes, lost in the depths of his own mind. Ian figures it’s a trait unique to the intelligent and the world-weary, and unfortunately Lip belongs to both.

“We asked him about you. He said he didn’t care one bit about either of you.” Bagheera fills in, the rumble of his baritone holding steady in the quiet of the night.

Bagheera chuckles. “He’s a terrible liar.” After a couple of seconds, the laughter fades, and he continues. “He might pretend not to care, but it is self-evident on multiple levels that, if anything, Mickey cares _too much._ ”

And maybe, just maybe, in the dark of the night, and in nowhere but the recesses of his unconscious, Ian acquiesces to the point.

That shuts down the rest of that conversation. They both return to a hearty meal afterwards, with no trace of the former animosity between the siblings, and Ian loses himself in the familial good cheer. Later that night, when he returns to Caleb’s side, he lies on his side, and is left with no questions to answer but his own.

_Why should he find Mickey?_

 


	3. Chinese Takeout is the Key to Self-Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happ 2017! Let's celebrate with never ending angst!

** Chapter 3: August 15th, Chicago **

Ian wakes up to the biting sound of an alarm clock.

Groaning, he reaches over to shut it off, but Caleb is already there, rolling out of bed to get dressed. Muttering curses to himself, he does the same, ignoring Mikhailo’s whines at being left in the cold. He winces when he looks himself in the mirror. Not that he looks like a disaster, but his eyes have taken on a deadened sheen.

It’s disconcerting.

He was once proud of his looks. Not vain, but he knew he was good looking. Now, his fiery hair looks odd against his pale skin. The contrast is no longer appealing. There is no vibrancy. Beside him, Caleb hums as he freshens up. The sound grates against his ears.

“So, you’ll be back here straight after work right?” Caleb asks.

Ian just grunts. He can get away with this in the morning, under the pretence of not being a morning person. It works, most of the time.

“Right, ‘cause I want to watch the football match tonight at the bar.” Caleb continues, blithely. “You’ll be coming with me.”

Ian suppresses a sigh. He hates football, and Caleb knows it. “I might just sleep in, the meds have been a little weird lately.” It’s a faulty excuse, but Caleb has all the perceptiveness and insight of an earthworm. Never really was much for caring about Ian’s episodes. If not for Lip, Ian suspects he might have fallen apart long ago.

“No, you’re coming with me.” On the bed, he can see Adhair’s furry head peeking out from the blankets, his ears flat against his skull. Ian can feel the distress emanating from him in waves. There is nothing he can do.

“Caleb, I really need to just sleep-” He tries, one last time. Maybe Caleb will be nice this time.

“You’ll be there.” His tone carries the note of warning. Ian feels the frustration leave him like a gust of wind. Still, it doesn’t stop him from muttering, even as he shrugs on his uniform.

“…Not as if I have anywhere else to be.”

* * *

 

They spend the last couple of weeks of the summer and the beginning of autumn expending every resource and contact looking for the AWOL Milkovich. Funny that. They had spent months fighting for his freedom, and now they were spending months just to find him. One of the first people they ask is Mandy. The first time he asks, she smiles sweetly and slams her apartment door in his face. The second time, she threatens him with a baton. The third, on a Saturday whose weather qualifies as an actual disaster, she finally lets him in.

“Alright douchebag, you have questions, but I haven’t had a proper fucking conversation with you in years.” She says, letting the door swing open behind her as she goes to fetch a beer. She doesn’t even pay him a glance, just expecting him to follow her inside. Ian can’t help but smile. Even after all these years, she still has that fire in her, the kind that makes her such a force of nature. The kind that makes her just a little bit scarier than she strictly _should_ be.

He trails in after her, admiring the simplicity of her apartment. With her new salary, she could have easily gone all out, bought some high-class, show-off IKEA showpiece, but instead she had opted for a small, but comfortable studio near her office. Then again, you never know when all that newfound money might fly down the drain, so it’s best to save where you can. Old habits do die hard, after all.

The entrance to the apartment faces her bedroom, whose door is locked shut. The corridor then opens out to the left, revealing Mandy’s living room. It’s a chaos-ridden battleground, with stacks of paper and books piling around the floor with a ratty couch and coffee table as its nexus. There is a TV mounted on the wall facing the couch, the only thing that Mandy clearly splurged on, as it’s twice as big as the one Ian has at Caleb’s apartment. The walls are painted soft blue, and Ian can’t help but notice the decidedly feminine touch it has, despite it all still very clearly screaming _I’m a Milkovich._

“So here’s what we’re going to do.” she says, not bothering to turn around as she bustles about her kitchen. “We’re going to order lunch, and we’re going to have a nice fucking conversation catching up on our lives, and after that I’ll decide whether to give you a shiny new black eye.”

She eyes him. “Deal?”

 _Is there actually a choice here?_ “Deal.” Ian replies.

She claps her hands together, flashing a brilliant grin. “Great! For a second there I was worried I’d have to bring out the baton again!” Ian feels a chill run down his spine. Not the baton. _Never the baton._

“So, what do you want?” She drawls as she pops the fridge door open.

“I don’t know, what’s good around here?” He replies, sitting himself down on the couch as he waits. Odin flutters down to the arm of the couch, fixing him with beady eyes. “Hey Odin, how’s it hangin’?”

“Better, though if you must know I have a bit of a cough.” Is the measured reply. Well then.

“We have good Chinese from a shop down the street.” Mandy calls out from the kitchen, grabbing a plate from the cupboard as she loads- are those _cookies?_ \- onto the plate.

“Is there Kung-pow chicken?” Ian replies, easily falling back into the old banter. It’s so strange, how he can still do that. Even though everything’s different now, even though so much has happened, even though Ian’s _sure_ he’s a different person now, it all fades away here. Like a jigsaw puzzle that’s constantly changing, but still the same. It’s a time capsule, is what it is.

“Yeah, they do, why?”

“Then it’s not real Chinese!”

Mandy laughs, still wild and untamed. “Since when did you care about ‘real’ Chinese?” She fires, and though Ian can’t see her face, he knows the light that’s dancing behind her eyes. It’s the same kind that Mickey has. Had.

He casts the thought away with a physical shake of his head, prompting a curious gaze from both Odin and Adhair. “Since when did you bake?” He says instead, reclining back into the sofa.

Mandy walks towards him, setting the plate on the table. “Shut the fuck up and eat my cookies.” She says as she sits down, the smile she stabs him with sweet enough to give diabetes. Oh look, a second chill up his spine. Ian wonders if this is going to be a thing.

Ian dispels the thought with a huff, a small smile gracing his face. He stops. This is the first time he’s smiled in a week. A real smile, not that kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. The ones where the edges of your eyes crinkle and you can feel the mirth in every micrometre of your own face. It’s like Ian’s young again, with hopes and dreams and aspirations about where he would be in ten years. Funny how that turned out.

He wonders what that Ian would say to him, if they ever had the grave misfortune to meet.

For the second time, he shakes himself out of his meanderings. “Look at us,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “If someone had told us ten years ago that we’d be sitting here, talking about ‘real’ Chinese food and _baking,_ we’d have told them to fuck off.” Okay, so maybe he’s not quite done with his meanderings yet.

“Please,” Mandy says, tossing her hair, “I always knew we’d get out.”

He shoots a glance at Odin, who is absentmindedly cleaning his feathers. “Yeah?”

She leans forward. “Yeah, we’re too smart for the Southside.” She says, giving him a conspiratorial wink.

“I’m don’t think smart comes into it.”

He gets an annoyed huff in response. “Okay, fine. Would you prefer me to say we were lucky? That help you sleep better at night?” Mandy smirks, and for a second Ian can see another man sitting in Mandy’s place, smirking with the same yet so different blue eyes. Like crystal, waves of fire crashing down in its facets. Eyes that he loves. Had loved. Had, not has. _Just one word, you stupid shit._

“A little bit, yeah.”

“...Fine, we were lucky, Ian, but we were smart too. A lot of people don’t get that chance, but those that do sometimes waste it all anyway.” Mandy says, taking a cookie and biting into it. She stops. Puts the cookie down, back on the plate. Using one hand, she slowly, gently, shifts it to Ian’s side.

“Here, try some.” She smiles, sickeningly sweet. Ian’s eyes flick to Odin, who’s shaking his head minutely, and politely declines.

“So, how’s the job?” Ian asks, delicately shifting the topic.

Thankfully, Mandy forgets all about the cookies, launching into a detailed soliloquy about the trials and tribulations of working in a mid-size law firm in downtown Chicago. As she rants about a particular case involving a Buzz Lightyear toy and murder (Humans are such creative animals), Ian sneaks a glance at Adhair. He’s withdrawn now, any vigour that he might have gained in the past week completely spent. He’s huddled in the pocket of Ian’s army jacket, unmoving and silent. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest indicates that Ian isn’t carrying a stuffed animal in his clothes.

Today’s not a good day. Not that Ian’s going to sink under depression, spending days under a thick fog of _nothing,_ but he’s hovering close to that brink. Perhaps if he wasn’t so focused on finding Mickey, he might have fallen off long ago. That would mark a first, wouldn’t it, Mickey not being the cause of an episode. _It was never his fault and you know it,_ another part of his mind whispers. He wonders if he can throw DID on top of Bipolar. In any case, something has robbed Adhair of spirit, and Ian doesn’t know what or why.

He suspects, though.

“So Ian, what’s going on in your life?” Mandy asks then. There’s a trace of anxiety in her voice, and Odin’s keeping a beady eye on Adhair. He wonders what they expect to hear.

“Fine.” He says, grabbing a cookie and roughly shoving it into his mouth by way of response. He stops after the first bite. Slowly sets the cookie back on the plate, right next to the other barely-eaten cookie. He feels Mandy’s eyes boring into him, and he grudgingly, with a massive amount of effort, swallows. It slides down his throat like wet cement.

“How is it?” Mandy queries, saccharinely sweet. The devil wears such a charming grin.

“Tastes like balls.” Ian chokes out. God, he never thought he’d had trouble _swallowing._ His gag reflex, something he thought he murdered years ago, is coming roaring back with a vengeance.

Mandy laughs, but before she can respond, there’s a knock on the door.

“Give me a sec, it’s probably the food.” She says, grabbing her purse. She returns a minute later with several plastic bags’ worth of food. They’re tumbling off her arms, which are in fact shaking at the sheer weight of the miniature mountain on her person. Ian can’t even see her face over the mountain of plastic containers. It’s roughly enough to feed a country for a day.

She looks at him.

“I think we may have over-ordered.”

-

“So what’s going on between you and Caleb?” Mandy asks as she inhales her plate of sweet and sour beef.

“Not bad.” Ian replies, tossing an empty packet of noodles into the trash behind him and reaching for the box of chicken rice.

“Aw c’mon Ian, I need more details than _that._ Last I saw, you and him were getting pretty cosy in that apartment of yours eh?” Mandy wheedles, moving on to the steamed fish.

On the chair to their left, Odin stares in abject horror.

“I don’t know, things have been- _oh you need to try this-_ weird.”

“Isn’t it always weird? You’re a Gallagher, things are never- _dear god how is that soup-_ normal with you guys.”

“Nah, but, I’m not sure that we- _I think that’s from Sichuan-_ really fit, y’know?”

“ _You mean that place in China with the real spicy food? I’m boarding a plane there right now-_ So what, you gonna break up with him?”

“No!” Ian snaps, before quickly retracting back into himself. “No, I don’t want-” He stops. “I’m not-”

_What do I want?_

Next to him, Mandy’s stopped eating. She’s looking at him suspiciously now, her eyes flicking to Adhair like she’s only just now putting the pieces back together. She abruptly gets up. “Alright, guess it’s time to get down to tacks of brass.” She says, walking over to the fridge with a muttered _I need another beer_.  

Ian takes the opportunity to finish her serving for her, neatly sweeping the empty containers into a plastic bag to throw into the trash. Mandy returns, roughly tossing a beer can at him. “So what the fuck _do_ you want?” She demands, pointedly settling on the chair opposite him. She’s no longer friendly, her eyes unforgiving and bordering on icy.

“I need to find Mickey and Teru.”

Mandy snorts a little. “Yeah, I call bullshit on that. He and Teru were in prison for eight years where you could easily find them, and yet you didn’t. You could have followed Mickey, kept him from self-destructing when he broke out, kept him _safe,_ but you didn’t.” She leans forward, narrowing her eyes at Ian. “So cut to the chase.”

“I told you, I need to find them.” Ian’s chin lifts in stubborn defiance and he pointedly cracks the can open. Her eyebrow quirks, a sardonic smile making its way across her lips. She knows he’s serious.

“Alright,” she acquiesces, taking a gulp of her own beer, “let’s say you were really hell-bent on finding my brother and his mangy wolf.”

“Then the question becomes ‘why should we let you see him’?” Odin continues, as Ian almost gives himself whiplash turning to face the crow. Adhair is still silent, curled in the folds of Ian’s hoodie on the couch, but he remains a reassuring figure nonetheless.

The only problem? Ian really doesn’t have an answer to that. He has no justification, no excuse for this. So he does the only thing he can when he loses control of a conversation. He diverts.

“Look, I’m not here to hurt anyone, but I just need to talk to Mickey.” He holds up a placating hand, willing his own anger and annoyance to disperse. He has no room for that here.

Odin does not relent. “To what end?”

“To-” Ian stumbles a bit there, “to settle things.”

“Settle what?”

Ian grits his teeth. “I don’t know!” He bites. “Okay? I don’t know why I want to see him, I don’t know why I’m doing this. I just know that I have to!”

Mandy joins in the interrogation, her arms folded as she pierces every piece of Ian’s armour like it’s paper. “For what, to draw Mickey back into your shit?”

“I wasn’t the one that married a whore!”

“And Mickey wasn’t the one that abandoned you to eight years in prison!”

“I had no choice!”

“The flying fuck you didn’t have a choice! He asked you to go with him! Don’t give me that bullshit!”

“WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!” Ian roars, flinging his beer can at the wall. He slams his fists into the wall then. Again. Again. Again. He doesn’t stop pounding until the last dregs of frustration leave him, bleeding out into the carpet and staining the floor. He feels bereft, empty, like someone had snatched a piece of him out from under his nose, and now it’s just _void._

“What was I supposed to do?” He asks, quieter now. His voice comes out broken, shattered.

Mandy smiles, bittersweet. “…Heh, somehow, even though you haven’t seen him for a long time-” She cuts herself off, gesturing to Ian’s now-bruised-and-bleeding knuckles.

Ian doesn’t reply, trapped almost entirely in the throes of memory. Wrong and right churn together until they’re indecipherable. _Somewhere down the line_ , Ian realises, _I forgot who really was to blame._

_Wrong. You ignored who was to blame._

His head is at war with itself. Opposing and contrary thoughts and memory swarm in a chaotic mix. He wants to believe that he’s been right, this whole time. That everything he’s been living for in these past years has been for the right reasons. Yet. Yet in this moment, battered and broken, he cannot bring up a word to justify his case.

There is a minute of silence, as Ian visibly pulls himself together. As he does so, Adhair stirs from his stupor, slowly rising from his resting place on the couch to make his way to Ian’s side. Belatedly, Ian notices that somewhere in the argument, he’d stood up, toppling his chair over. With a steady hand, he rights the overturned chair. Only the slightest tremor betrays him. Shit.

“You know I’m the one that told Lip about the trial.” He throws out, faux-casual. _Oh hey, you know that thing that shaved 7 years off your brother’s sentence? That was me. No big deal._

Mandy buys exactly none of his shit. She sets down the beer onto the table top, and crosses her arms. “And-?” She drones, like a very bored receptionist, the fight slowly seeping back into her. Yep, definitely been hanging out with Debbie.

Ian fights with himself for a reply. There are no words. It’s the kind of thing that any language cannot accurately describe, that pale border where words fail utterly. How can you talk about something you don’t know? How do you try and grasp at thin threads that waver in the air, when you yourself can’t see them? So he doesn’t. He just gives a sharp nod of his head to Adhair, who is sullenly weaving himself around Ian’s legs. If Ian didn't know any better, he’d call Adhair catatonic.

And maybe they are still better friends than he’d thought, because she looks like she gets it. The fight slides out of her frame once again. She gives her fingers a twitch, and Odin takes off to settle on his usual perch on her shoulder. “He needs time.” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“What you did, well. He’s not really over that. He needs some time off to remember how to be Mickey again.”

Adhair bristles slightly. _What he did,_ like Mickey hadn’t pushed him away in the wake of Svetlana. Like Mickey hadn’t hurt Ian too. It does not go unnoticed.

Odin meets Adhair’s gaze evenly. “Look, Ian. We’re best friends, right?” Mandy asks.

“Yeah.”

“So I can be honest?”

“Be my guest.”

Mandy sighs, for about the sixth time in as many minutes. “Great, because right now, you’re so deep in denial I'm tempted to just kick you out and be done with you.”

An eye twitches. “What.”

“I know Mickey shit on you before. I already ragged on him about being a little bitch about it, but in the end, he dragged his sorry ass to pick you up. You...haven’t really reached that stage yet. Take it from someone that’s really good at it. Lying to yourself never works out.” Mandy clarifies. On her shoulder, Odin gives a squawk of assent.

“Ian, I’m not a psychologist. Emotions are not my area.” She laughs then, a harsh sound that rings in Ian’s ears. “But I do know that right now, neither of you are ready to meet each other.”

Ian opens his mouth to protest, but Mandy holds up a finger. “I take back what I said about denial. As your _friend,_ I think you’re caught somewhere between denial and guilt, but it’s all rooted in selfishness.”

“But-“

“No. Let me talk. Ian, in all of this, did you ever think about what _Mickey_ wanted?”

That strikes Ian dumb. Suddenly all the chaos in his mind is swept clear, replaced but one, resounding word.

_No._

“Thought not.” Mandy says, clearly reading Ian’s expression. “Ian, Mickey’s only been out of prison for, what, a couple of weeks now? Maybe a month? He still hasn’t recovered from either prison, or you. Right now, the Mickey Milkovich you know may as well not exist.”

“I will not divulge any details, but let’s put it this way. After you broke up with him, left him in prison, and then let him run off on his own with virtually zero emotional stability, I should murder you on principle. The only thing stopping me is that _he_ asked me not to.”

Ian’s hands are shaking. Why are they shaking? He desperately clasps his hands together, warding off the typhoon of emotions threatening to sweep him away. Mandy stops there, her eyes softening by just a fraction. “Mickey hasn’t even gotten his life back on track yet, and you want to come sweeping in like a hurricane?” She says.

“Forgive me if I’m not keen to let you into his life when you’re just going to storming in and out as you please.”

 _Hurricane Monica,_ echoes in Ian’s head. He reels. It feels like he’s been slapped, but he can’t respond.

“Ian, I’m not saying Mickey doesn’t want to see you. In fact, he really does, so much so that he’s told me where to send you if you came knocking.”

Ian’s head whips upwards at that, but Mandy holds up a finger.

“But-he’s not going to see you until both you and him come to terms with yourselves. On your own. While you sort your shit out, Mickey needs to learn how to be a proper human being.”

Ian’s eyebrow quirks. “Don’t you mean, remember?” He asks sardonically. He has a goal now. Mickey sent him a location. With that, he can pull himself back together.

“No, Ian. I mean _learn_.”  Mandy states, ending the conversation. She looks uncertain, like she’s teetering on the edge of a drop. To be frank, Ian feels the same.

“If you really want to find Mickey,” she says, standing up, “you already know where to start and who to ask. You just have to think.” Reaching over, she takes the half-finished beer from his hands, signalling the end of the conversation. He’s about to get up to leave when Mandy turns back to look at him.

“And Ian?”

He looks at her, takes in the sight of a woman that built herself back up from nothing. Less than nothing. A woman who’s been used, abused, and left in the dust. Look at her now, wearing her scars proudly. _Yeah, I survived this, fuck you._ His best friend.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“...It’s good to see you too.”

 


	4. Flashbacks, Thy Name Is Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Real sorry for the lack of response. I've been up to here with New Year's stuff! Here's a new chapter with some Mickey as an apology!

** Chapter 4: August 15th, Afternoon, Chicago**

He stands outside of Mandy’s apartment, letting the brisk autumn wind whip against his face, wracking his head for any other leads he can pursue. _Think Ian_ , _who else would know where Mickey Milkovich is?_ The answer hits him like a figurative slap to the face that has absolutely nothing to do with the weather. He almost gets run over hailing down a taxi, and barely spares the blonde driver a glance as he rattles off the address for the abandoned complex down by Trumbull.

Daemons. Spiritual beings made out of dust that model themselves after your soul, taking the form of one of the many millions of animals that populate the globe. Contrary to olden belief, despite being made of dust, daemons require food, water, and shelter as much as the rest of the other living beings on this planet, and like all living beings, they can die. However, only a daemon can injure another daemon. No other weapon can even pierce their hide. Furthermore, they can’t die from hunger, thirst, or other such methods, but they certainly feel its effects, and they suffer for it.

Another thing about daemons; they aren’t bound to their humans.

Funny thing really, some people don’t like their daemons very much. Maybe they’re too small, or they represent a part of their bonded they’d rather forget, or maybe their unfortunate bonded is a sociopath with no need for a daemon. So sometimes they just...split. They go their separate ways, like some kind of demented divorce. The only problem with that? Society has no support system for lone daemons. If the government doesn’t even have the decency to care for their citizens, the isolated animals stand no chance in the inner city. The abandoned daemons always end up on the streets, raiding and stealing to survive. They’re called the _Lost Ones_ , partially because the bulk of them end up having no purpose without their bonded, and partially because someone had most likely read far too much Peter Pan when he or she had come up with the name.

Ian’d never really paid attention to them, nobody really did, but someone had. Someone who’d known what it was like to be spit on and forgotten. There was a reason Mickey Milkovich was always so hard to catch. Not easy to get eyes from someone when almost every bird in the neighbourhood is actively working against you. Not easy to get the drop on someone when a Lynx straight up mauls you out of the blue as a warning.

It was Mickey who’d first introduced him to them.

-

_“You tell anyone about this, Firecrotch, and you’re dead.”  Mickey warns with a scowl. It’s halfway through the summer and Ian can’t help but feel like he and Mickey are something approaching friends. Sure, they fuck like goddamn rabbits, but sometimes they just hang out, doing nothing except watching TV or sharing a smoke. Hell, Adhair and Teru sometimes sidle a little closer to each other than strictly necessary during their shifts, not that anyone notices, letting the tips of their tails touch or loping past each other with the faintest brush of fur._

_So when Mickey had faux-casually asked for a little help with an errand after their shift at the Kash n’ Grab, he’d naturally piqued Ian’s curiosity. Mickey never asked for help, and the kind of errands Mickey ran were usually illegal and on a “fuck off” need-to-know basis. Ian couldn't help but wonder if he was going to get involved in a gang war. Still, it’s Mickey. Ian would probably fling himself off a cliff if the boy had asked. So that’s how he ended up following Teru as he helped Mickey carry several boxes of food to an abandoned complex._

_The complex was old, built long before the Daemon Allowance Act was passed by congress, demanding that public and private spaces be built in accommodation for the varying sizes of daemons. Thus, while the complex floors could certainly take the weight, of say, a Rhinoceros, a daemon of that size would be hard pressed to find a way to enter. However, some of the populace took issue to the drastic change for various reasons. Some argued that having to pay extra for construction was unfair. Others said that those born with larger daemons should have thought about it when their daemon settled. Needless to say, civil unrest ensued. A riot had occurred at the site of the complex, which had been a popular hotspot for discriminatory groups to gather, one of the largest in the Windy City’s history._

_Ian was perplexed, to be sure. What could possibly be taking place in a dump like this? No gangs roamed here, they all avoided it like a plague. The rumours said that it was haunted. Climbing the worn, dilapidated steps, Ian could almost believe that were the case. Offhandedly, he notices a series of large holes, adjacent to the various doors and entrances to the complex, suspicious in their placement and size. Upon reaching the second floor, Mickey had instructed him to place the boxes at specific locations around the antechamber, sorted by the type of food. Within minutes, they came. Daemons of varying shapes and sizes, crawling, lumbering, or flying into the room in search of food._

_That being said, Ian really cannot take anything seriously right now because Mickey Milkovich, juvenile delinquent, wannabe-arsonist, and all-round douchebag, is being affectionately mobbed by an entire menagerie of animals, all of them desperately clawing at the boxes of food he’s holding above his head. He’s given up on the birds, who’ve already flown off with their share, but he’s still obstinately keeping it from them like some sort of deranged zookeeper._

_“Guys, seriously, back the fuck off or no one gets the fucking food!”_

_Alright, so maybe Ian snorts a little, and maybe Mickey shoots him a glare that can cut through solid steel, but it’s mitigated by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. He’s holding the bags of food right out of their reach with one hand and roughly shoving away a very eager lynx with the other, while Teru desperately tries to run interference by growling menacingly. It doesn’t work._

_“Yo, toss it over.” Ian says, because while this is adorable, if Mickey’s getting mobbed he doesn’t get context, and right now he really needs some context as to why Mickey’s the secret animal-whisperer._

_Mickey gives him a sceptical look, but he tosses the box over anyway, baseball-style. Unfortunately, baseball style also means that the contents in the box go flying out as well, and are soon lost in the chaos of fur, scales, and teeth that ensues. Ian just smiles when Mickey realises he’s been played. Honestly, scowls are more or less Mickey’s way of showing love._

_A little while later, when everyone’s sated and lounging happily around the empty floor, Mickey finally answers Ian’s unasked questions._

_“They’re uh, the ones that weren’t wanted.”_

_Ian’s eye twitches. “...I’m gonna need a little bit more than that, Mickey.” Because he doesn’t understand how the fuck a goddamn lynx managed to find its way into Canaryville without being cau-_

_Oh._

_“Fuck off,” Mickey shoots back automatically, rubbing his lip self-consciously. “Y’know those, daemons that no one wants, right? They come here, I feed ‘em, they do me a couple of favours. Qui Pro Quo.”_

_“That’s not how Quid pro quo works Mickey,” Ian starts, but then stops again. “Wait, so all those times you stole food from Kash-”_

_“Gallagher, you say one more word and nobody’s gonna find your fucking corpse.”_

_“-it was for these guys?!” Ian’s laughing now, doubling up and clutching his stomach. This is just too funny. “Big bad Mickey Milkovich, the demon of the Southside, helping to feed abandoned daemons? Are you the Southside Mother Teresa now? What would Kash say?”_

_It’s about then that Mickey tackles him, the two of them landing on the ground in a tangle of limbs fighting for dominance. “You’re dead Gallagher!” Mickey yells, but the way his eyes are twinkling tell an entirely different story. They end up with Ian on top of Mickey, his hands flat on Mickey’s chest, and he can feel its steady rise and fall as Mickey breathes. Each heartbeat, solid and steady as a rock, yet fragile in its pulse. Mickey’s eyes aren’t guarded anymore, nor are they hooded. They’re wide open, soaring sky-blue as they look at Ian like he’s seeing him for the first time. Something’s shifted between them. The tension that used to haunt their every interaction has faded into something easy, something more. In this instant, Ian could almost believe making a future with this boy, growing old together. He can see the years passing by in those eyes. For a nanosecond, Ian could see infinity._

_Off to the side, Adhair’s climbed on top of Teru to doze, as she watches them with an amused lilt to her muzzle. The other daemons have arranged themselves around the Grey Wolf, settling around her like the centre of an orbit, while the birds fly overhead, twittering to some unknown tune. It’s strange. The common perception of the Chicago Southside is that it’s terrible. That it’s a cesspool. That there’s nothing worth looking at in a ghetto where the trash gather. It’s strange, because at this moment, all Ian can see is perfection._

_“You quite done over there, children?” She calls._

_“Fuck off!” Mickey yells, and he gets a happy bark for his trouble. Ian can feel the world shifting around them, like this is a shining moment in time, precious as the sand that flows from the hourglass._

_“So, you gonna get off me?” Mickey quips, and Ian huffs a chuckle before sliding off the Milkovich. He spends the rest of the afternoon being introduced to each daemon, who Mickey knows by name, and if he’s paying a little more attention to the redness gathering at the tips of Mickey’s ears than at the introductions themselves, that’s his business._

_“...and that fucker’s name is Almaethea.” Mickey finishes, indicating the Lynx eyeing Ian with a sleepy-eyed grin._

_“Pleased to meet’cha.” She purrs, cocking her head to the side, all feline grace. Ian is reminded suddenly of Mandy. “Charmed.” He replies, giving a returning smile, and if anything, her grin widens._

_“Oh Mickey, I like this one.” She stands then, slinking over to Ian’s side. She’s not big, only reaching to Ian’s hip, but it is clear from her gait that she is a predator. Her fur is coloured similarly to a leopard’s, dark spots mottling the otherwise immaculate brown fur, radiating danger from every pore. Her wide grin does nothing to offset the sudden rush of anxiety gathering in Ian’s throat. When Ian looks to Mickey for help, he just raises an eyebrow that says; you’re on your own. How helpful._

_“So, uh, what species are you?” He asks, in lieu of any proper conversation._

_“Eurasian, my dear boy.” She replies with a grin, her canines flashing in the dying light. Polite to a fault, how feline. She’s enjoying his discomfort, curling her tail around his ankle as she casually circles him. He feels distinctly like he’s being hunted right about now._

_It still catches Ian by surprise when she abruptly spins around and pounces on him, knocking him flat on his back. Her fangs are bared, sharp daggers that could easily sever his tendons. He hears the daemons erupt in noise, startled sounds that create a cacophony of chaos. He hears Mickey’s alarmed “The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He feels his heart thundering in his chest, the blood pounding behind his ears. He should do something. He should shove the Lynx off him, draw the knife he always keeps in his pocket, but he can’t think over the noise-_

_Everything vanishes at the sound of a soft growl. He feels Almaethea stiffen on top of him._

_“Let. Him. Go.” Teru’s fur is standing on end, her hackles raised. She’s on her feet now, Adhair having leapt off her back in alarm the instant he’d felt her mood shift. Her legs are splayed apart, he body arched, electricity is arcing through very much akin to a live wire. Volatile. Dangerous. He can feel the wolf’s rage halfway across the room, all focused on the spotted Lynx on top of him. The floor is deathly quiet now, and Ian can feel the primal fear stirring in his chest, making his previous fear of the feline on his chest seem laughable by comparison._

_There is a reason why wolves have ingrained themselves in humanity’s cultural memory, and it’s not because they’re the most powerful, or the fastest, or even the most ferocious animals to grace the earth. They lack the size and strength of a bear, or the sheer viciousness of a lion or tiger, but somehow they’ve become more feared than either, haunting the darkness of the night. The pagans used to fear these animals. The Egyptians placed them as the guardians of the dead. All across the world, there is a cultural trauma of these canines, a stirring of an eons-old urge to flee at the merest glimpse of a muzzle._

_That’s because, amongst all animals, wolves are the most dangerous._

_They’ve adapted to almost every environment known to man. Snow, desert, jungle, forest. Every ecosystem contains a species of wolf. They are adaptable, and cunning to a fault. They make up for their lack of size and strength by hunting in packs, stalking their territories with a silence that allows for the most bestial of assassinations. Were you to glimpse a bear in the forest, or a lion in the savannah, you might still have the faintest possibility of survival._

_If you see a wolf, bright eyes gleaming at you in the pitch darkness of the forest, you’re a dead man walking._

_He can see why now, looking at Teru, predatory instinct rolling off her in waves. Almaethea’s body is arched as well, tense in a way Ian’s only seen in the wild. This is not the pretence of civilisation that daemons share, no. This is crude. This is violence. “What happens if I don’t?” Almaethea shoots back, but her lackadaisical tone is strained._

_In response, Teru launches herself at the Lynx, knocking the cat straight off Ian’s back into a roll. He keeps staring at the ceiling, but he can hear them, snarls and hisses punctuated by the ripping and tearing of flesh. He cannot look. He suspects if he does, he might never look at Teru the same way. This is perhaps what makes Mickey so dangerous, the darkness that lurks just behind the whites of his eyes._

_Mickey._

_Chancing a look at the boy, he sees Mickey’s eyes fixed on his own. His eyes are clouded with worry, perhaps the most vulnerable he has ever seen the young boy. Registering Ian’s movement, Mickey turns, fixing his eyes on the duelling daemons. There is rage there as well, sparking deep under Mickey’s pale skin. To Ian’s eyes, he seems to glow._

_When the sounds stop, he turns his head minutely to see Teru, her jaws fixed around Almaethea’s throat. They hold that pose for a few more seconds, before Teru releases the Lynx from her hold and glares at her. Where Mickey’s anger is a flame, carefully controlled, Teru’s is ice. Cold, sharp, lethal. “Don’t you ever touch Ian again.” She growls, and Ian hears the underlying message. Don’t hurt my pack. Don’t touch my family._

_Almaethea huffs a small laugh, slowly dragging herself to her feet and visibly rallying herself. She’s sporting several small cuts, blood slowly dripping down over her spotted coat. “My dear Amaterasu, this is why I laughed when you insisted you weren’t in love.” She smiles like she’s won some sort of petty game, before leaving a dumbstruck audience to go lick her wounds._

_The next day, Mickey invites Ian for a sleepover at his house._

_-_

_Fog. Haze._

_Ian can’t think. He can’t feel. He’s dimly aware of the world around him, a rotating mix of sounds and voices. How many days have passed? He cannot tell. He is alone, adrift in a white void. He is nothing. He is no one._

_No._

_He is Ian Gallagher. He is not floating. He is alive. He can feel the sheets covering him, shielding him from the agony of reality._

_With monumental effort, herculean even, he rises. What greets him is a slowly stirring Adhair in a darkened room. The blinds are drawn. This is not his room. The answers are slow to come, inhibited by the miasma that clouds his senses. It’s nauseating._

_“You’re in Mickey’s room. It is October the 23 rd on the year 2006.” _

_Ian slowly, excruciatingly, turns around. A cat’s looking at him. No, not a cat. A Lynx. Almaethea._

_“Why, who-?”_

_“You’ve been asleep for three weeks. Mickey and Mandy are out of state, they have some business to settle regarding Terry.” Almaethea smoothly interjects, cutting a line through Ian’s disjointed thoughts. “While they’re away, we’ll be helping you get back on your feet.” She finishes, smiling calmly. Ian imagines that this is what a nurse would be like._

_“We-?” Adhair asks, his voice slurred and unsteady._

_Almaethea pads forward, using her snout to nudge him into wakefulness. “Yes, ‘we’. Mickey and Teru have enlisted our help to take care of you. ‘We’ have tomato soup, if you’re willing to drink.”_

_Ian nods slowly. He sweeps one leg off the bed. Then another. Pushing himself off, he only manages a few shaky steps before he stumbles. He expects to hit the ground, but instead he falls into soft fur. Almaethea catches him, cushioning his fall with her body._

_“Baby steps, young one. We cannot have you injuring yourself on your first day out of bed.” She teases lightly. A Rhino eases his way into the room, allowing Ian to lean on him as he hobbles out into the living room._

_“Easy kid, I’ve got you.” He rumbles in a deep baritone. Almaethea emerges from the room a second later, carrying a drowsy Adhair on her back. It’s surreal. Mickey’s house, built on the bare minimum of size requirements, could barely fit a Hippopotamus. Yet in the space of time Ian had been in bed, a small army of daemons had colonialised the house. Hummingbirds and Ravens are seated on the chairs and couches. In the kitchen, a very enthusiastic Orangutan is busy ladling soup into two bowls, as a troupe of mice lay the dining table._

_“Wha-” Ian manages, before his voice betrays him, devolving into a hacking cough. His throat feels parched. A glass of water finds its way into his hands._

_“If you’re asking why we’re doing this, Ian, then you ask the unnecessary.” Almaethea chides, depositing Adhair onto a chair just as Ian seats himself. The bowls of soup, piping hot, are served._

_“We care about Mickey, and we care about you as well.” She declares, to a chorus of agreements._

_“Don’t worry, while Mickey’s away, we will take care of you.” The Orangutan says, his smile bright and earnest. Later, Ian would be grateful, thanking each and every daemon profusely. He’d make it a point to learn each of them by name, and get to know them. Borealis. Yang Chen. Syka. Critias._

_He takes a sip._

_-_

_Ian’s standing in the abandoned complex._

_It’s all so different, yet the same. The room is still the same, mould caking every spare surface. A thin layer of dirt coats the floor. The boxes are on the floor, forming a barrier between Ian and the steadily advancing tidal wave of sheer, distilled, anger._

_“You.”_

_“How could you?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Is it something we did?”_

_“He trusted you! WE trusted you!”_

_Each accusation cuts a new wound in Ian’s fractured psyche. Adhair is rapidly stepping backwards. Every microbe in his body is screaming at him to flee. He does not._

_“I had no choice-”_

_His voice in drowned out by roars. He is buffeted by the self-same crows-Medivh, Magus, Avalon-that had shared the latest news with him as he remembered how to smile. The Orangutan that had cooked his meals-Borealis-is screaming, a cry that pierces Ian’s heart. His eyes are wet, ridden with confusion and pain. The Rhino that had carried him-Critias-is standing as silent judge, sadness flickering in his eyes. Ian turns frantically, trying to find some source of support, anyone that would listen to him, tell him that his decision to leave Mickey was the right one. It was. It was. It had to be the right one. It needed to-_

_Almaethea._

_She is looking at him in utter betrayal. Her eyes are shining. Her posture is dead, defeated. He reaches a hand out to comfort her. She shrinks away, shaking her head. Everywhere he turns, there is anger. There are cries of ‘why’. Now that Mickey is gone, gone to prison, there is no one to care for them but Ian._

_Yet Ian was the one that turned traitor against them all._

_He wants to cry. He wants to rage. He wants to scream and scream till his throat shreds from the effort. His fingers dig into his palm, rivulets of blood streaming down and dripping onto the floor. Adhair’s ears are flat against his skull, visibly shrinking into himself. The world is burning. Ian’s world is burning. It’s a pyre that licks the very base of Ian’s skull, begging him to reconsider. Begging him to do something to stop the destruction. Lightning arcs across the sky. There is blood. Splattered on the floor. Drip. Drip. It is his. It is his. His ears beg for mercy._

_Deep in his mind, something snaps._

_One step back, then another, then another. All of his emotions are swept away. Blank. Blank white space. The chaos fades to nothing. Emotions fade to dust. Yet that is better than the alternative._

_Ian turns and flees, Adhair hot on his heels. They do not return._

-

When he steps into the abandoned complex, the first thing he notices are the empty boxes strewn throughout the floor. _Mickey was here_ , he realises with a start. That’s good. That means he’s still in Chicago, and that means he can still be found.

The second thing he notices is Almaethea.

She’s lying on the ground, seemingly at ease, but he can read the tension running through her shoulders. Of all the daemons, he was closest to her after all. Before the Bipolar, before everything came crashing down.

“You came.” There’s no hint of the familiar carefree confidence in her tone now, in its place is something much colder. It sends a chill running down Ian’s spine. She could rip his throat out here, if she wanted.

Ian ignores it though. He has to, if he’s going to find Mickey. “I need to know where he is.” He calls, as Adhair cautiously leaps off his arms to creep towards the Lynx. A warning growl halts him in his tracks.

“Why? Because breaking him once wasn’t enough for you?” She accuses, her face twisting into a rictus of anger before abruptly smoothing again into blank indifference. It’s unnerving, the way she does that.

The worst part is that she’s right. He doesn’t know why he’s expending so much effort finding Mickey. Hell, he doesn’t even know what he’d do if he found him by this point.

Almaethea picks up on his silence. “You don’t even know, do you.” She states. It’s not a question. Rising from the floor, she makes her way towards him cautiously, her head tilted in that way she does when she’s trying to figure something out.

“We need to find them.” Adhair says, voice as flat as the dead man’s heartbeat. It’s the first time he’s spoken in days.

“Why?”

“We just do.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be.”

“Are you threatening me, _Adhair_?” Her lips are drawn back, baring her razor-sharp teeth at the diminutive weasel. Ian can feel the tension sparking through the air.

“Fuck you.” He spits, his voice echoing through Ian’s head in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. For a second, he gets a double vision of sky-blue eyes, before he comes back to himself.

“Enough!” Ian steps in. “Adhair, just, stop.” He looks at Adhair, and the weasel immediately subsides, still bristling with anger. Ian waits a few seconds to give Almaethea a chance to calm down before he continues.

“We...we have things we need to say.” He says, very much aware of how weak that reason is.

“Oh?” She’s still tense, her head hanging low as she slinks around him, but he knows he’s in the clear for now.

Ian clears his throat. “Yeah, things I probably should have told him back then, but didn’t.” _Yes,_ Ian thinks, _things. Very eloquent._

He hears a snort from behind him. “And what do you want to achieve with this? Do you expect him to jump back in your arms?” Almaethea fires, her voice accusing as she traces circles around him, “or perhaps he’s spent the past few weeks buying a ring for the occasion.”

“After all, he came running back to you not once, but twice now. Perhaps the third time shall be the charm? perhaps this time you'll finally drive off into the sunset in a pearly-white _jeep?_ ” The words are innocuous, but the venom that seeps through every syllable could burn a hole through steel.

Ian chokes out a laugh at just how _absurd_ that idea is. “Nah, I think he’ll probably deck me. I just need to tell him because he deserves to know.” He says. He doesn’t mention exactly what he means, because truth be told, he himself doesn’t know. What would he even say, if he was so lucky as to ever catch a glimpse of Mickey again. What magic spiel would tumble out of his mouth, to mend the rift? Would he be able to do what Mickey had, all those years ago, somehow cross the bridge of _hurt_ that had opened up? Fuck, why is he even finding Mickey in the first place? There’s not even anything to fucking _say._

Still, the Lynx must see something in his expression, because her shoulders sag slightly. She regards him with a wane smile. “Let it not be said that I didn’t look out for you two,” she sighs. “Come on, the idiot’s left a message for you.”

_If I’m Molly Grue, then what are you?_


	5. Perhaps Symbolism May Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian becomes supremely done with Caleb's shit. As always, like, comment, or kudos if you like what you see. It fuels my creative desperation. XD

** Chapter 5: August 15th, Night, Chicago**

That night when he heads home, Caleb’s already sitting on the couch. The setting sun frames the room, casting dark shadows across his face that obscure it from view. Ian experiences a wave of Deja Vu, because in the darkness, the way Caleb’s legs are spread wide, his slouch, even the beer he’s swirling in his hand, it’s all dead ringer for _Mickey Mickey Mickey_.

It makes it all the worse when his vision clears and it’s a Spotted Hyena and not an Arctic Wolf that greets him. Coarse brown fur that stings and bristles instead of the silken bed of _comfort_. To the untrained eye, one might assume that a Hyena and a Wolf would be very alike. Both are mammals, covered in fur. Both are quadrupeds, and are carnivores that hunt in packs.

Unfortunately, for both human and daemon, superficiality is where the similarities end.

In the rays of the dying sun, it would be all too easy to pretend that he was home, but Ian is no longer in the mood to pretend. He mulls Almaethea’s message over. What the hell does _If I’m Molly Grue, then what are you?_ mean anyway? Is it a clue? Some sort of bullshit metaphor? When the fuck did Mickey get so bloody _cryptic_?

“Where’ve you been?” Caleb asks, his voice curving with concern. Like a good fiancé’s is supposed to. Mikhailo, _Oh the irony_ , the Hyena nudges him slightly with his snout, and he knows it’s out of love and worry. It still makes Ian feel sick to the pits of his stomach.

“Out.” He replies shortly, making his way to the kitchen to grab a beer of his own. It’s Saturday anyway. He can afford two beers in a day. Besides, after the week he’s had, he has more than earned it.

The apartment is not exactly spacious, but it is by no means rundown. The floor is covered in wood panelling, and the living room is separated from the kitchen by a granite countertop for eating, flanked by high stools. North of that, the apartment narrows down into a corridor that leads to the toilets, bedroom, and a storage room. The walls are a stark white, giving the Turns out Caleb was surprisingly good at interior decoration, and he’d wanted their home to look perfect. At first, it had been a welcome change. The pristine floors and ample space was such a drastic change from the Gallagher homestead that he had fallen in love with the new apartment nigh instantly.

Fast-forward a few years, and the plasticity and superficiality had rapidly lost its charm. Caleb’s apartment is pleasing to the eye, but that’s all it is. There is no love. There is no sense of the warmth or _home_ that had been present in the Gallagher household. Or the Milkovich household. It’s too clean, too _neat._ It reeks of a man that has never seen hardship, one that has never had to compromise. It is not a home. It is a lodge, at best.

Caleb’s standing behind him now, eyeing him sceptically. “Out, where exactly?” He questions, a singular eyebrow raised in an arch that resembles the curve of a guillotine blade. It bothers Ian that he can draw the disturbing comparison.

“Fiona’s.” He lies. He knows he’s being a monosyllabic asshole, but he really can’t bring himself to care. Adhair makes his way out of Ian’s hoodie, prompting a small whine from Mikhailo when he brusquely shoves past the Hyena to settle on top of the TV. He watches as the weasel settles himself there, blatantly ignoring Mikhailo as he gazes out the open window. Five stories below, Ian can hear the distant wailing of sirens.

Caleb picks on the hostility nigh immediately. “Did...anything happen at Fiona’s?” He hedges, moving a step closer to Ian, supposedly meant to be a gesture of comfort. It achieves a rather contrary effect.

His hackles rise slightly. He feels like a cornered animal, a millisecond away from snapping. He just juts out his chin response, giving a sharp “No”. His eyes are fierce and fragile, a oxymoronic juxtaposition that dares his fiancé to press the issue further yet whimpers in the same breath. He can see Mikhailo slowly sidling up to the TV, trying to coax the weasel down, but Adhair remains steadfast in ignoring his supposed mate.

“You trying to _weasel_ your way out of an interrogation?” Caleb tries, giving his best attempt at a winning smile. It falls disastrously flat. The world narrows, and it feels like the walls of prison are closing in on him. A gilded cage. That would make Ian the faded songbird, with Caleb his jailor. His fiancé, so close yet so blind to the realities of Ian’s being. He is a disaster, one borne of unintentional callousness that sucks the air out of Ian’s lungs. He can’t breathe. He can’t look at the smiling pauper before him.

_It’s just paranoia, it’s the mania._

But Ian feels perfectly rational.

_You’re overthinking._

Is he? Then why does Caleb’s smile fill him with instinctive dread? Why can’t he look the man in the eye?

“Caleb, please. Not today.”

It should have ended there. Ian should have just left the room and let that be his response. Instead, he lets himself be wrapped by Caleb’s arms, crushed under a force only he can feel that crushes his ribs until he’s gasping for air.

“Ian,” Caleb says, “Are you sure going back to the Southside is a good idea?”

The air in the room stills.

“What.”

Ian’s panic and paranoia abruptly cease. In its place, a firestorm that is barely held in check by Ian’s self-restraint slowly emerges, sending burning tendrils seeping through his nerves.. From his perch on the TV, Adhair hisses, a warning to retreat while Caleb still has his limbs intact.

Undaunted, the man continues, his arms still constricting around Ian like snakes, pale vipers that Ian feels like stabbing with a knife. “It’s just, you got out of there, but you never want to actually leave it.”

“Get to the point.”

“You’re always going back, on weekends, holidays, to do favours. It’s not good for you. Look, I just think that you’re better than that place.”

“Oh?” Ian replies. Remember what the therapist said, deep breaths. Count to ten. Count backwards in Ukranian. Count backwards in the tongue of Mickey’s ancestors. Hope that they don’t take offense.

“Not in that way. It’s just, nothing good comes from that place, y’know? The negative stuff sucks you in and doesn’t let you out.” As usual, Caleb is remarkably adept at making a quasi-valid point at the expense of misreading everything else. It does nothing to help the loud buzz that’s starting to ring behind Ian’s ears.

“If nothing good comes from there, then what am I?” He bites. Caleb is truly a unique specimen. A man so blind to the world around him that even the distance and bias of race does little to impact his prejudice of those beneath him. Ian wonders how and why he ever loved this man.

Caleb’s eyes widen at the implication, and he backtracks with amazing aplomb, releasing his hold on Ian and taking a cautionary step backwards. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to say that-”

“Then what were you trying to say, huh?” Suddenly the tables have turned, Ian being the aggressor and backing Caleb into a corner. It is a mental victory more than it is physical, but he feels a stab of vindictive pleasure in seeing Caleb back away.

Caleb’s eyes narrow, and it’s like the prophetic omen of a storm, not one of physical proportions, but no less damaging. For a second, Ian is flung back into the past. The adrenaline pumping itself through his bloodstream awakens old wounds and memories.

_Just admit it. You’re gay and you love me._

“What I’m trying to say is that you’re too good for these people, and it’s about damn time you realise that the only thing they’ll do is bring you down!” He yells, his voice so far removed from the smooth baritone Ian has grown used to. This is the breaking point. Ian has apparently pressed some long-hidden nerve; poorly hidden, if he were to be honest.

It takes a full second for Ian to register the words themselves, a second one to decipher their meaning. A third to consider the appropriate response, and a fourth for all logical thought to be replaced by animalistic rage. He snarls, and Caleb actually takes a step back at that.

“Too good?” He questions, pointing an accusatory finger at the man’s chest. “Who the fuck are you tell me that I’m too good for my own family?”

“As long as you continue to stay with them you’ll never move on!” Caleb insists, refusing to back down. “You’ll be giving them money, you’ll be shuttling them from prison, and before you know it you’ll be robbing stores again for them!”

Ian fights the urge to spit in his face for the insult. “Big man, to come here and tell me that I’m too good for the Southside!”

“Why the hell would you want to stay?”

“BECAUSE I _AM_ SOUTHSIDE!” Ian explodes for the second time that day, blades etched into words aimed at his fiancé. “You can’t cherry-pick the best parts of me because this is _me_!”

And oh if that wasn’t the cherry on top of this whole situation. Monica had told him that people would always be trying to change him because of the Bipolar, ignoring the one thing that had always been there, that underlying feeling of _Southside trash_. Irony really is a bitch.

Caleb’s eyes visibly widen, and his posture stiffens marginally, but it’s enough to know Ian’s gotten the upper hand. Unbridled fury has overtaken his thoughts, a red haze that distils his thoughts into a singular, red-hot iron of focus.

It is a common understanding that a clear marker of any Southsider is their temper. No matter their demeanour, in the wrong time and the wrong place, a Southsider might go from nought to a hundred in a millisecond. That is why any disputes between them can last for months, if not years. Perhaps it is because they have so little to begin with, that they feel so freely, that their outbursts are so volcanic. Compared to any Southside argument, this is positively tame, and this guy is an amateur at even that. For all that he has a Hyena daemon, right now, Caleb is _prey._

So Ian hunts.

“You think I’m some angel huh? You think I’ve never robbed a store?”

“I’ve been working odd-jobs since I was 10 so we could stay alive in the winter. I’ve stolen cash from registers, shoplifted, and smashed people’s heads in for my family. I’ve held daemons for ransom and gotten into enough fights to leave your prissy ass _gaping_ _in horror_.” He punctuates that with a violent shove, forcing the larger man back a few steps. He smirks at the slow dawning fear that is beginning to etch itself across Caleb’s face.

“I am _not_ a good person. Every part of me you see is from the ghetto, so you _don’t_ get to decide what’s best for me because you don’t know what I’ve done. I’m not some pussy that’ll bend over to your every whim just because I got out, so _get it fucking straight_.”

He sees Adhair creeping up on Caleb along the counter behind him as well, having snuck under Mikhailo’s guard. He smiles a feral grin, and Adhair pounces.

He’s not big, but he’s heavy enough to knock Caleb over, stumbling right into Ian’s fist, which sends him tumbling back onto the floor as Mikhailo looks vaguely distressed. Little bastard’s probably never seen a proper fight. Caleb lands flat on his back, staring wide-eyed at Ian and Adhair. Good. That punch wasn’t meant to hurt anyway, just to prove a point.

“Let’s get something clear,” Ian says, crouching down to look the man in the eye. “There’s nothing good about the Southside. It’s shitty, and I want nothing better than to leave it behind and never look back.”

“But don’t you ever, _ever_ say that I’m too good for that place.”

“Some of the people living there are scum. Fine. We all know that. But until you haven’t had proper food in a week, or had to live through a winter with nothing but two sheets of blankets, you don’t get to judge.”

“Everybody there is trying to survive. We may do shitty things, but we do it because we don’t have the luxury to do anything else. Maybe I got out, but if I can do the slightest thing to help the people, _my family_ , that are still there, I damn well will.” Leaving the conversation at that, he stalks into the bedroom, Adhair at his heels, and slams the door shut.

Later that night, Adhair hisses Ian awake. He looks panicked. Ian rolls out of the empty bed to something that sets every alarm bell in his head off. The window is open. The window is _never open_. He practically leaps out of his bed then, grabbing his knuckledusters from their place in the drawer on bedside table and slipping them on. He hesitates for a second. _Remember Ian, these are illegal. I'm giving them to you only for emergencies._

He slips them on anyway.

He opens the bedroom door with a silence that was honed carefully over years of attempting to never be noticed. Caleb’s draped over the couch, Mikhailo on the floor next to him. No signs of entry there. Whoever came in, he or she just ventured through the window into Ian’s room, and left. Not much of a thief.

Closing the door to the bedroom, he turns his attention to the room. Nothing’s been moved. None of the obvious things, like the wedding ring on his bedside table, or his meds, or the little Yin necklace hanging by the bedpost-

Wait.

Ian takes a step closer, _it couldn’t be_ , he thinks. There, glinting in the pale moonlight, is one part of two necklaces, refugees from a bygone era.

-

_“Got something for you.” Ian says as he walks in through the door, Adhair practically hopping at his heels. It’s been a day since Mickey grew the brass balls to come out, and Ian feels on top of the world, like he’s floating or flying and he could just stretch out his hands to kiss the stars. Something like that deserves celebration, or a cake, or something nice. Definitely something nice. He’ll have to buy the ingredients to make a cake. Maybe Debbie or Fiona could help?_

_Mickey’s lying on the couch, grumpily flicking between channels, his hair sticking out in oddly jutting out spikes. “It better be a beer, or a smoke.” He groans, still ginger from the beat down he received at the hands of his father. From her place on the floor beside the couch, Teru whimpers in agreement. Wolves may be formidable, but their size disadvantage against the Grizzly Bear that Terry has left its own scars on her._

_“Nah man, remember I was supposed to go over to Goodwill today? Well I found this.” Ian sets his plastic bag of clothes down on the dining table for Mickey to cut the sleeves off of, and saunters over to Mickey, holding out two interlocked necklaces for him to see._

_Mickey’s eyebrows lift. “...Nuh-uh. No way. There is no fucking way I’m wearing some chink, weeaboo pansy-ass necklace!” He declares, pointing a damning finger at the offending Yin-yang symbol._

_“Aw come on, it looks badass!” Ian protests._

_“No, it looks like we’re trying to be wannabe zen-hipsters, and I ain’t down for that shit.”_

_“Don’t you at least want to know what it means?”_

_Mickey must see the pleading look in his expression, because he averts his eyes for a second, rubbing a thumb over his lip. An oblique gesture, but one that Ian has grown intimately used to. It means discomfort._

_“So what the fuck does it mean.” He finally answers, refusing to look directly at Ian’s face._

_“It’s supposed to be some good-evil shit.” Ian explains, plopping himself down on the couch next to Mickey, “like the white bit is purity and nice stuff and the black bit is supposed to evil stuff, so we can wear one each.”_

_Granted, the implication that Mickey was evil or bad in any way might not have been the best idea one day after Mickey had done the unthinkable for him, but no one ever said Ian was thinking clearly._

_Mickey catches on, his lips twitching slightly. “You saying I’m evil Gallagher?” He quips, and Ian already knows he’s given in._

_“Yep.”_

_“What if I want to be the good guy?”_

_“Nope. That’s me. You go back to your drug runs.” Ian says, leaning over to press a kiss to Mickey’s forehead, a grin making its way around both their faces._

_“After all, we both know I’m the smart one here.” He jibes. Mickey’s eyes are alight, twinkling like miniature orbs of radiance. It’s beautiful to watch. It’s beautiful to see a boy that had never known how to live, that was always on guard, finally let himself be at ease. It makes Ian want to whoop, and dance a happy-dance._

_“Fuck off.” Mickey says, more out of habit than any real irritation anymore, and he reaches over to snatch the Yang-portion of the necklace to slip it over his head. “I look like some new-age queer.” He complains, staring down at the necklace. The solid black acts in stark contrast to his pale skin, and it rests comfortably in the hollow of his throat.Next to them, Adhair winds himself Teru, and she nuzzles him._

_“Mickey, you are a queer.” Ian can’t resist jibing._

_“Hey man, fuck o-” Mickey starts, but any conversation is cut off when Ian surges forward to capture Mickey’s lips with his own._

_-_

_Later, when they’re both still on the couch, a tangle of limbs, Ian asks the question he’s been meaning to. “Mick?” He breathes. There’s no reply, save for the faint rise and fall of Mickey’s chest as he sleeps._

_“Mm?” Teru mumbles instead, rousing herself slightly to lift a sleepy head at Ian. “What is it?” She asks._

_Ian shakes his head. “Nah, just wanted to ask Mickey a question.”_

_Teru laughs slightly, her voice tinkling like bells. “Well, ask away.” She says. It’s strange. Teru is so much more composed and gentle than Mickey, yet they are one and the same. A compliment, or perhaps a mirror-image. That is the mystery of a daemon’s soul._

_“What do you think love is?”_

_Teru turns his face to look at Ian, a smile playing at her lips. “Well, that’s a strange question.” she asks mildly, amusement radiating from her._

_“I dunno, just. People always talk about love, like it’s some cool thing that you just get. But then you look at Frank and Monica. They’re pretty fucked up, and they love each other.” It’s crude, but true. No matter how it ended, Frank had loved Monica. Hell, Frank still loves Monica. Yet it had all fell apart when Monica had abandoned him, leaving behind a battered shell of a man._

_Ian chuckles. “I used think that love was just wanting to marry someone, or that I’d get it when I was married. Stupid right?”_

_“I mean, when you and Mickey marries Svetlana, I was so angry, cause that was like saying-”_

_“-That we never cared for you?” Teru interjects, her eyes knowing. Ian nods._

_Teru sighs, taking great care not to dislodge the sleeping Adhair as she turns to face Ian fully. “Ian, when you were gone, I watched Mickey fall apart. In a way, he stopped living, because there was so little in his life worth living. Mandy and I helped where we could, but-” Teru stops there, caught in the throes of memory._

_“Well, that isn’t for me to say. What I mean to say is that, if Mickey never cared, yesterday would have never happened, and speaking about that-” Teru’s voice changes fractionally, dipping by only the smallest pitch, but it’s telling how that’s enough for Ian to go from ease to fear._

_“Never, never give Mickey that kind of ultimatum ever again.” The faintest trace of a growl enters her voice._

_Ian’s eyes narrow. “Why? It worked out fine, didn’t it?” He challenges._

_“That’s not the point. You put Mickey’s life in danger because your feelings were hurt. That’s not acceptable.”_

_“But-”_

_“No buts. I don’t care what or how you were feeling. Mickey’s done nothing but put himself on the line for you ever since you came back, even against my better judgement. Paying him back in this way, forcing him to choose between his own safety and you, is the most selfish of ways to respond.”_

_“You’re family Ian. Mickey and I would both kill and/or die for you, but the next time you pull something like this, I will tear you apart myself.”  With that she settles back on the couch, and seemingly goes back to sleep, leaving Ian to troubled thoughts._

-

Ian shakes himself out of remembrance, raising a hesitant hand to grasp the necklace. He rubs the cool metal. It’s real, alright. He could have sworn he lost it, when his mania hit its peak and the delusions became too real. He thought he might have thrown it away, in a fit or paranoia. Adhair makes his way to it as well, slowly nudging it with his snout before recoiling in shock.

“It has his scent,” he whispers, but the statement echoes in Ian’s head like a roar. _Mickey’s had his necklace. All this time._

 _Mickey was in Ian’s room_.

There is a tag, attached to the necklace. With a bated breath, Ian turns it over to read the inscription. Even in the darkness, he can recognise it as a web URL to a youtube video. Ian practically flings his laptop open, his fingers flying as the type the address, and he waits. It’s an animated movie, that much he can tell, and there’s a wizard and a - did Mickey just point him to a video with a _unicorn in it?_

“It can’t be.” A woman with curly brown hair breathes, and Ian wants to laugh. Is that what Mickey is trying to say? _You’d have better luck finding a fucking unicorn,_ is that what he’s saying? The feeling lodges in Ian’s throat.

Then the woman explodes, aching grief striking across her face as she screams. “Where were you?!”

“Where were you ten years ago, twenty years ago, when I was new!”

“How dare you come to me now, when I am this!”

Ian can see his face, staring back at him through the black screen when the video ends. He’s not sure he likes what he sees. He knows what Mickey’s trying to say. _How dare you. Where were you when I needed you?_ How could he say that? Doesn’t he know what Ian’s been trying to do, every day since he’s been diagnosed? It’s not his fault if Mickey couldn’t give him what he needed. It’s not his fault if he couldn’t give Mickey what he needed. Not his fault for pushing Mickey away when the only thing Mickey ever did wrong was care too damn much. It’s not his fault that he couldn’t follow Mickey, just abandon his life to some uncertain future on the run-

_It means we take care of each other._

He knows he was justified in not following Mickey. He was in no position to support Mickey back then. No funding for his medication, no plans or places to stay, going would have be suicide. Still. What about before then? Wasn’t he the one that said marriage meant more to him? Once upon a time, the very idea had been enough to send Ian fleeing to the army. He’d never expected he’d throw it back in Mickey;s face one day. He’s brought back down to earth when Adhair gingerly touches Ian’s arm with his snout. “So what should we do?” Adhair asks. Good on Adhair, keep perspective since Ian clearly can’t.

“The fuck should I know? Caleb just can’t see it!” Ian hisses, clamping down on the knowledge that he’s deflecting. Again. Adhair just levels Ian with an unimpressed glare, but doesn’t press the issue. All Ian can notice later is that, in the pitch darkness, Adhair’s fur borders on midnight black. Teru’s pelt was as white as snow.

_Yin and Yang indeed._

The next morning, Ian leaves the house for work with a Yin-necklace tucked underneath his shirt, kept safe in the hollow of his throat. It’s both a reminder and a promise.

_I won’t stop. Not until both he and I are ready._

 

 


	6. Fruit Punch and Other Fascinating Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. A thousand people read this. I am beyond surprised and impressed. Thanks to all of you! Really! As thanks, brotherly fluff!

** Chapter 6: August 22nd, Afternoon, Still Chicago **

A week later and Ian’s sitting in the cab, idly watching the Chicago scenery go by. Word has it that Teru’s been spotted near a bar Northside, and while daemon can stray from their bonded, Mickey and Teru have never really made a habit of it. Seems more than one thing’s changed. He’s on his way there after work just to scope out the place, and after that it’s off to a birthday party of one of Caleb’s work-friends. Work-friends, what an inane term. You’re either friends or you’re not. There’s no need to be so cordial when it’s not needed.

“You looking for someone?”

“I’m sorry?” Ian’s head shoots up from where it’s been resting against the car window, absentmindedly fingering the necklace under the folds of his shirt.

He sees a flash of amusement behind sunglasses, and the taxi driver continues “You come into my cab last week, mutter about _him._ Today you come into my cab, and it is same story, you are searching, no?”

“Oh, you’re the same cabbie as last time.” Ian notes dully. He’d been something akin to a madman that day, desperately demanding for a ride to a complex that no one had dared to visit but Mickey and him. It was a wonder that the taxi driver was willing to take him at all.

“I am surprised you do not notice.” The cabbie’s tone rivals the Sahara Desert. Now that Ian bothers to look, the cabbie’s actually pretty young, probably about the same age as Ian, if not a little older. His hair is hidden under a cap, but the wisps that Ian can see are a dusty blonde.

Ian flushes slightly. “Oh, sorry, I was...preoccupied.” He says, trying not to look like he wants to find a hole to crawl into and die. It’s rather mortifying, to be remembered by someone that you do not. Beneath him, the dozing Adhair shifts slightly.

“It is small matter,” He says, waving a hand in dismissal, his thick Russian accent curling around his vowels. He sounds like Svetlana. “Now, who you looking for, boy? Is it brother? Friend?”

“Oh, er, he’s actually my lover.”

There is a pause.

“You are faerie? Frou-frou queen? You do not look like-ah, what do they call it?” Ian can hear the mild shock in the cabbie’s tone, and can’t help but give a faint smile. Despite himself, he’s enjoying the conversation slightly. He hasn’t talked with someone like a friend since-

Well, a long time ago.

“Twink?” He supplies, pushing the thought away.

“Yes! That is word.” The cabbie crows, “You do not look like ‘twink’.”

“Uh, thanks?” Is that a compliment? Should he be offended? Even at work as an EMT, Ian has never had to engage in such inane small-talk before. He’d reached that comfortable level of familiarity with them to forgo caring about propriety years ago. Yet here he is, desperately trying to remember the unspoken rules of social interaction.

There should be a book. How to Human 101. It would probably be a bestseller.

“If he is lover, then why are you sad-looking?”

“...it’s a long story.” Ian doesn’t want to go into that. A stranger has no right to pry into his secrets. He knows that the driver is just trying to be polite, but it broaches on topics an issues that Ian himself doesn’t know how to handle. Despite his declaration of not giving up until he’s ready, he has no idea where to start. What even quantifies as ready?

“It is long car-ride to supermarket you want, and I have good ears.”

“Let’s just say I broke up with him, and I’m trying to make things right now.” Ian snaps, his necklace making its way out from the folds of his shirt in his distress. The dead air that follows could fill the space between galaxies.

_Make things right._

_How?_

_This isn’t my fault._

_You know that it is._

_Then explain to me where I fucked up._

There’s no answer to that. Maybe because there’s too many.

After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, the cabbie starts talking again. “If you broke up with lover, then what is there to make right?”

Ian doesn’t have an answer to that either.

The lead is a bust.

* * *

 

It’s not even sundown and Ian already feels like drowning himself in the punch bowl.

He’s at the birthday party with Caleb, and he genuinely is considering the pros and cons of a mass murder. _We both have to go,_ Caleb said.  _We have to show solidarity as a couple,_ he said. Ian's not sure what political statement is being made by his presence, but saying no to Caleb is roughly similar to gently requesting the sky to stop raining. No dice. So that’s how he’s finding himself in a tight-fitting suit, giving a plastic smile as he exchanges pleasantries with friends of friends at a hotel banquet. No really, a fucking _hotel banquet._ Not that small-talk can’t be entertaining, but when your conversation topic revolves around the Lamborghini you rented in Italy, the class divide really starts to make itself known.

“So _Ian,”_ one lady asks, dragging out the _Ian_ like some second-rate Bratz doll. “What do you do for a living?” Silently, he notes that she has a Parrot for a daemon. Surely she has to be more intelligent than this? Quietly, he also notes the slightly strained smile she has plastered on. Not a fan of the LGBT, he guesses.

“He’s an EMT.” Caleb replies for him easily, linking his arms with Ian’s as he gives the woman a winning smile. _Oh yeah,_ Ian thinks dully, _the joys of corporate life._

“Oh now that’s very commendable! Good of you, giving back to society like that!” She croons. Her voice rises to a falsetto, possibly attempting to sound polished. Unfortunately for all concerned, and for the sanctity of Ian’s ears, it’s not working.

"Far better than  _some_ people who live in this city! Well, I suppose it's one of many of the changes our fine president will make!"

"Perhaps you should consider getting married now, before we return to moral sanctity?" She gives a shrill laugh, and even Caleb looks two steps away from decking the woman. Sadly, he does not, and only glares at Ian when his hand reaches for the brass knuckles in his coat.

_Keep calm. No sense in starting a fight here. Even if there is all the reason in the world for one._

Giving the woman a polite smile, he extricates himself from Caleb’s vice-like grip and escapes to the toilet. Slamming the cubicle door shut, he digs a cigarette out from his suit jacket and lights it, as Adhair worms his way around Ian’s feet. “Can’t we just leave?” Adhair whines, a little petulantly.

“Don’t think we can.” He says, taking a long drag.

“Come on, just say that you’re feeling sick. Remember that dude that fainted on you at work? Do that.”

“Might be a bit of a spectacle.”

“Would be more funny than _talking_. If another bitch tells me what a cute ferret I am I’ll claw her eyes out.” Ian huffs a laugh, and they fall into silence. After a couple of minutes, the toilet door opens, and the padding of paws against the tiled floor echoes. 

“Ian?” Mikhailo calls, his scratchy voice reverberating against the walls as his claws _clack_ against the marble tiling. What is it with hotel toilets and acoustics?

“Over here!” Ian replies, forcing cheeriness into his voice. It’s much easier to pretend when he can’t actually see the hyena. Perhaps he should consider a career switch into theatre. Heaven knows he could replicate melodrama with flair.

Ian can hear Mikhailo moving, and as the Hyena comes to a stop in front of his cubicle he stubs out the cigarette. “Everything okay in there?” Mikhailo asks.

“Ian’s just having a stomach-ache!” Adhair drawls, giving a playful wink to Ian as he hops off Ian’s lap to worm his way under the cubicle door.

“Well, that doesn’t mean you have to stay here with him. Come on, Mrs Bennett’s been asking for you.”

“For me. The Weasel.”

“Well, she said Ferret, but I assumed-”

“-did you correct her?”

“Why would I?”

“...Let’s just get this over with.”

A door opens and swings shut. Ian heaves a sigh, and digs out another cigarette as his phone vibrates.

-

[Lip: 5:00 PM] Fi’s calling movie night. U coming?

[Ian: 5:01 PM] Nah I’m at some stupid pty with Caleb

[Lip: 5:02 PM] Shit u still alive?

[Ian: 5:02 PM] I want my baseball bat

[Lip: 5:02 PM] No no no bad idea

[Lip: 5:03 PM] Tell u what is there free punch?

[Lip: 5:03 PM] If there is bet u I’ll find u in twenty minutes, tops

[Ian: 5:03 PM] Enough to drown myself in

[Ian: 5:04 PM] Make it ten and I’ll buy you lunch down at Albano’s anytime you want

[Lip: 5:05 PM] I’ll be there in 8

-

Slipping his phone back into his jeans, Ian makes his way out of the toilet. If Lip’s really going to be dropping by, he really should let-Carl? William? Nicholas? He can’t remember-the birthday boy know. He finds the guy by the punch table, funnily enough. As a stark contrast to all the formal attire around him, the man is wearing a pair of black biker’s gloves.

“Hey, Ian!” The man calls in greeting.

“Hey, uh-”

“Martin.”

“Martin. Shit, right. So my brother’s asking if it’s okay for him to drop by, that okay with you?” Ian fidgets in his place. Suddenly he feels out of his depth, like a child that decided to dive off the deep end.

“Your brother’s Southside?”

Ian startles. “Sorry?”

Martin laughs, brushing his gelled black hair out of his eyes. “I’m not an idiot. I know a Southsider when I see one, y’know?”

“For the record, real sorry about this, it’s all corporate bullshit. I’m saving the real stuff for when all these shitheads leave.” He says, gesturing to the crowd with a roguish grin.

“Yeah?” Ian asks.

“Yeah, you and your bro are welcome to drop in. I got some good beer and weed, special for the occasion from our brothers.” The Husky says, real offhand.

“Huh. Didn’t think-”

Martin snorts, and holds up a hand. “Ey man, just because I look Northside doesn’t mean I can’t party it up with you guys down South, you know what I mean?”

Well then. Ignoring the blatant pandering and misguided views, it’s marginally better than Cecilia and her fur coat. “You sure?” Ian asks. “Cause if me and Lip come we gotta bring Caleb and Mikhailo too.”

“...Oh shit, that’s right. How the hell do you live with them? He’s so-”

“Americana?”

“Yeah. That shit-hey Caleb! How’re you finding this shithole?” Martin rapidly switches tracks when Caleb claps his hand on Ian’s shoulder, Mikhailo and a very put-out Adhair trailing at his side.

“Exquisite as always, Mr Misha.” Caleb says with a flourish.

“Fuck, no need to sound like you stepped out of a goddamn tea house.” Martin says, laughing, and another conversation starts, dripping with enough sugared words to give a water buffalo a heart attack. Adhair nips at Ian’s ankle, and when he looks down, uses his snout to point to the direction of a very particular man and his panther, picking his way through the crowd with a particular mixture of annoyance and disdain.

Ian almost teleports to Lip, launching himself at his older brother. “Jesus Christ thank god you are the best brother-” He cries out, lavishing his brother with love and attention because joy of joys _Lip is here_.

“-Woah, easy there on the affection man!” Lip chuckles, but he wraps Ian in a hug anyway. He’s dressed in a white shirt and black pants with a tie, his hair windblown and messy, but it’s _Lip._ Just the very fact that his brother is here sends waves of relief crashing through Ian.

Adhair grins, suddenly full of life and energy and the sight of Bagheera. “We were ready to go full-Milkovich on the place.”

“Really. That would have been something to see.” The panther quips dryly, before breaking into a grin. It’s hard not to, when Adhair looks like a very adorable, excitable puppy.

Adhair makes a considering expression. “Yeah, actually, now that you say it. Go away. Come back in five minutes.” He says, using a paw to wave the feline off.

Bagheera has the good grace to at least pretend to be affronted, lifting his paw in mock-outrage. “But I just got here! At least let me have a drink for my woes! A balm for the weary traveller!”

“Nope. No drink. Get out. I want this place in flames by the end of the hour.”

Lip grins down at the weasel. “Alright, break it up. What say you we give this place the fucking Gallagher treatment instead?” He says, looking Ian right in the eyes. _You wanna have some fun?_

“You mean the ‘fucking Gallagher’ treatment, or the ‘ _fucking_ Gallagher treatment’?” Ian responds as he waggles his eyebrows. _Fuck. Yes._

Lip groans. “Dude, that was years ago. I’ve moved on from those days. Why you so fascinated with my libido anyway, huh?”

“Because I’m your younger brother, and thus it’s my patriotic duty to give you hell till you get lung cancer and die young.”

“Mate, you smoke as much as I-” Lip starts, before Ian rapidly shushes him with a gesture.

_Caleb doesn’t know._

Ain’t that the ongoing theme in Ian’s life. In any case, Lip gets the hint, and drops it in favour of giving the ballroom a cursory glance. “Real uptown set up the guy has here, huh.” He notes, the hint of being _200% done with this bullshit_ colouring his voice.

“Yeah, his name’s Martin. He seems alright. Kind of.” Ian assures him. Lip just tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“That your judge of his character?” He asks, his lips quirking into a sardonic grin. “You do realise you’re a terrible judge of friends. Might I remind you that you’re the one that got us involved with the Milkoviches in the first place right?”

From anyone else, that may have set Ian’s temper off, but coming from Lip, somehow the memory doesn’t sting. “And you’re the one that’s going on thirty-five and still single because you couldn’t keep the women _I_ introduced into your life. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there were two gay men in the Gallagher household.”

“You little shit!” Lip laughs, as he grabs Ian and pulls him into a headlock. By this point Ian’s sure people are staring, but he really couldn’t care less. “Take that back!” Lip yells.

“Never!”

Of course, it’s about then that Caleb chooses to show up, with Martin in a tow. “So, does this happen to be your brother?” He asks mildly.

“The one and only, at your service.” Lip declares, somehow managing to perform a sweeping bow while still keeping Ian in place. “Stop struggling or I’ll fucking noogie you!”

“Noogie me and your shitty porn collection’s gonna delete itself!”

Bagheera steps forward, gracefully interceding for the duelling brothers. “We’re deeply sorry. Sometimes they forget if they’re thirty or thirteen.” He explains.

“Really, it’s Lip that’s thirteen. Ian and I are the peak of maturity.” Adhair jibes, blithely resting on top on the panther’s head. Through the corner of his eyes he can see Caleb’s expression, as he desperately tries to flail out of Lip’s grip.

He looks ready to pop a gasket.

“Lip.” He grits, like the very word disgusts him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Lip doesn’t pause, doesn’t flinch, even as his smile recedes. He lets Ian go, and straightens his tie. “Why is that such a surprise, again?” He asks.

“Wasn’t aware you knew Martin.”

“Well, Martin has a lot of friends, and I was invited. Right Martin?” Lip counters, raising his eyebrow at the man in question. Let the hustle begin.

“Yeah man, me and Lip were real tight back in college. Didn’t know his kid brother was your fuck-buddy. Good to see you bro!” Martin lies smoothly, reaching forward to wrap Lip in a tight hug. Lip hesitates for a fraction of a second before smiling and returning the gesture. Caleb’s still angry. He doesn’t like airing Ian’s ‘dirty laundry’, as he calls Ian's relatives.

Well Caleb can go drown himself in a vat of tar. Ian’s family isn’t dirty laundry.

Lip lets go, fixing Caleb with a challenging look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ian and I are off to grab some punch.” He says, grabbing Ian by the shoulder to make his escape.

“Ian stays here.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, why don’t you let Ian decide?” Lip quips, giving Caleb a pointed glare. His eyes flick to Ian’s for a millisecond. _Moment of truth Ian, please don’t let me down here._

Caleb refuses to break his staring contest, so instead, Mikhailo turns to Ian. “Ian, do you want to stay with us or hang out with your brother?” He tries to sound diplomatic, he really does, but the way he says brother is said in the same tone as one might say _cockroach_ or _unfortunate pile of dung that has made its way onto my front lawn._

Ian’s answer cannot come fast enough. Blurting out a quick “Lip”, he grabs his brother’s hand and almost dislocates an arm yanking him away from Caleb. When they’re a safe distance away, he lets go of Lip’s hand, and lets himself calm down.

“Ian, remind me why you date asshole version 2.0 over there? Man, he makes me miss Mickey.” Lip says, casting a glare in the vague direction of where Caleb was.

Ian doesn’t answer that one. He doesn’t need to.

“Better than nothing.” Adhair mutters, from his place on Bagheera’s head. He looks sullen now.

Bagheera and Lip stiffen slightly, and Ian knows they understand the implications, all of it. “It might help if you were honest with yourself.” Bagheera says, and Ian snorts.

“You’re the second person to say that.” Ian bites, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. He’s plenty honest with himself. Isn’t he?

“Yeah, because we have a fucking point.” Lip sighs.

Ian sighs. “I just, I don’t know. Everyone keeps telling me to be _honest_ , but I don’t even know where to start looking.”

“I spent eight years trying to bury all of this. Now, I don’t even know what’s real and what’s not anymore.” His fingers twitch. From his perch on top of Bagheera, Adhair sighs.

“We didn’t mean for it to go this far. Truly.” He says, eyes lowering. It’s a silent gesture of regret, which is more than what Ian can manage expressing.

“But with Mickey behind bars, we never got any closure, and we just had to-move on, I guess. By now, everything regarding Mickey is just this confusing, scary bundle.” The admission startles Ian slightly in its honesty, but it is true. For a long time, Ian had shoved everything related to Mickey Milkovich in the darkest recesses of his mind to fester. Now he’s just reaping the benefits.

Lip gives a wry smile. “Ian, we Gallaghers have a bad habit of denial. All of us have done it at one point or another, it’s in our DNA or some shit. Just man up.” He claps Ian on the shoulder, and hands him a cup of punch.

“When I was in rehab, I realised that you get a _lot_ of time to think. Same with Mickey and prison I guess. When you’re there, there’s not much to do but rethink your bad life decisions. Or do some underground beer trading, or shank an asshole that probably deserved it. It’s really your choice.”

Bagheera picks up on the rapidly derailing topic. “Ian, sooner or later, you will have to grow a pair and confront the denial and guilt. Maybe, then, somewhere down that line, you can finally learn to start living again.”

Ian’s head snaps up at that, and Bagheera and Lip both smile wanly. “You think we didn’t notice?” Lip says.  “The Ian Gallagher we knew had fire. He was bull-headed, stubborn, and a pain in our ass, but he was _alive._ You haven’t been like that in eight years.”

Ian takes a step back. “How do you know that. It could be the meds.” He challenges, but he already knows the truth.

Lip shakes his head. “Meds don’t stop you from having anything resembling a happy existence Ian.” He says, and on Bagheera’s head, Adhair’s gone silent. It’s a fine tell about where this conversation is landing in terms of piercing Ian’s façade. “Tell me honestly, in these eight years, have you _done_ anything?”

“Huh?”

Lip rolls his eyes. “You know, picked up hobbies, read books, gone skiing, anything man. Literally any kind of activity that proves you haven’t been living on autopilot for the better half of a decade.”

Ian trains his eyes on the cup of punch, studiously examining the rim.

“See?” Lip asserts, taking a step into Ian’s space. It’s not threatening, but all Ian wants to do is run. It takes all of his not inconsiderable mental fortitude not to. “For all you say you’re better, you really haven’t. You just got really good at looking normal, and hoped we didn’t notice. Well now I’m telling you; learn to be _Ian_ again, and somewhere down that line you’ll probably find Mickey.”

“You always seem to, in the end. For better or worse.”

Ian and Adhairs’ heads hang low. There’s no denying any of it. Besides Caleb, the Gallagher family, and work, Ian hasn’t really _done_ anything. His last big hobby was the army, but after that, well. Everything just fell to shit. During the eight years with Caleb, he just never really cared enough to do anything other than routine. He hasn’t seen a movie in years, when Caleb dragged him out for a date, and he can’t even name three things that he likes to do to relax. With a start, Ian realises that he’s no closer to knowing himself than where he was eight years ago on the Gallagher doorstep with Mickey.

“Hey,” Lip says, putting a comforting hand on the back of Ian’s neck, “a long time ago, you told me ‘I got this’. Now I’m telling you, you got this.” Lip brings their foreheads together, and looks at Ian in the eye. He can see the deep sincerity pooling there, that bone-deep confidence that Lip has in him. It sends a warm feeling buzzing down in his stomach.

“Now drink up, and get thinking.” Lip commands, pointing at the cup of punch. It’s a deep purple, and Ian can see the chaotic mix of lychee and other fruits he doesn’t care to name swirling in its depths. It looks utterly unappetising, but Ian takes a sip.

It tastes surprisingly good.

 


	7. The Ties that Bind

** Chapter 7: August 29th, Afternoon, Always Chicago**

The journey of Ian’s self-discovery begins with a trip to the mall.

Oh yes. According to Lip, he’s almost become Amish in his distance from modern society, which Adhair agrees with. Ian thinks it’s unfair. So what if he has no clue what ‘Snapchat’ or ‘Instagram’ is. So what if he hasn’t watched ‘Sherlock’ or that new Star Wars movie. He’s been busy saving people’s _lives_. Surely that counts for more, right? Still, on this quest of re-education and re-entry into the mystical, eldritch concept known as popular culture, Ian has only one person to turn to.

“Debbie.”

“Ian.” He can hear her eye-roll through the phone. He’s standing in a coffee shop, one that he’s only just found out has existed near his apartment this whole time, which as amazing feat given that Adhair cannot survive without a morning cup. Mind, not Ian. Adhair.

“I need your help.” He says. The cashier, young blonde lady with a Guinea Pig daemon, is eyeing Adhair with no small amount of confusion. His eyes are steely, his paws steady, as he repeats his order for a cappuccino.

“Ian, I told you. I’m not helping you fi-“

“This isn’t about that.” Ian interrupts. The lady’s looking to him for help, clearly lost on how and why a daemon would want coffee. He just shrugs. “I need to know what’s been going on with the times.”

“…I’m sorry?” Is the confused reply. _Hah, got you,_ Ian thinks _._ Not often he gets to one-up Debbie. The lady is recovering, slowly, from the trauma of being confronted by a weasel with cravings. She’s asking him if he wants cream. Ian suspects she might regret that question as Adhair launches into a soliloquy about the perils of cream on cappuccinos.

“Lip says I haven’t been keeping up with recent developments, like ‘movies’ and ‘celebrities’.” Ian air quotes. “I figured you were the best person to ask.”

“…So this isn’t about Mickey.”

There’s a pause.

“Well…” Ian sing-songs, dragging the ‘e’ out.

“Oh dear god, Ian I swear to the Jesus that laughs at my suffering that if this is some backhanded scheme I will publicly write an expose about you, my idiot brother, and have it published in _every_ news site!” Her voice is laced with static, muffling the inflection slightly, but Ian can still feel the histrionics ringing in his bones.

Adhair prods Ian’s coat pocket with a paw, and he fishes out his wallet and hands it to the weasel without a missing a beat.

“Nah it’s not what you think.” Ian assures. “Lip said that both and Mickey need some time off to find ourselves - _fuck I just realised how first-world white-bread that sounds_ \- and I figured I probably should start with figuring out what’s been going on in the past-uh-eight years?”

“…Ah.” If Ian didn’t know any better, he’d think Debbie sounded _touched._

She coughs. “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll be glad to help my brother out!” She rallies herself, confident assertiveness that is a hundred percent _Gallagher_ carrying even through the static of his phone.

“First off, what phone are you using? The connection is really bad.” She asks. Ian takes a breath, and braces himself. _Remember, you asked for this._

“Apple.” Adhair hands Ian back his wallet, stuffing into his coat for him, and Ian takes his cup of coffee for him as they make their way to an empty table.

“Oh, IPhones huh. Which model?”

“…”

“Ian?”

“…Three.” Ian says. Adhair’s quietly sipping his cup, gratefully soaking up the wafts of steam curling up in the autumn air. Outside, golden leaves are falling. It’s oddly picturesque. The only thing that’s marring the experience is the slow grin that creeps across that blasted weasel’s face as he watches Ian dig his own grave.

“Oh, so like the 3-Byte or the 3-Rev? By the way don’t you think those names are really stupid? I get that they had to stop using numbers after 10, but seriously.”

“No, not the ‘3-Byte’. Just Three.”

There is a momentary pause, deafening in its weight. “Ian,” Debbie begins, slowly, cautiously, as one might approach a nuclear bomb. “You don’t happen to mean the IPhone 3 that was released in 2007, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“Ian, that wouldn’t happen to be the one that was released a _decade ago, right?”_

“The very same.”

The sigh Debbie gives carries over mountains.

“This is going to take more than just me.”

-

Ian is slightly floored at the sheer size of the complex. It’s row upon row of shops, all selling some strange oddity or commodity. How. Why. What marvellous human came up with this ingenious idea? Ian needs to know. He’s just sitting on a bench on the ground floor, watching the people pass him by. It’s odd. All these people, of all shapes and sizes. They’ve all got their own story, their own friends, enemies, loved ones, their own mistakes. _We all have our damage,_ a nasally voice quips within the confines of Ian’s mind. It is…strangely picturesque. Adhair curled up around his coffee, soaking in the last wisps of heat curling up from the empty cup. The droves of customers, talking, laughing, actively enjoying each other’s company.

Ian hasn’t had that luxury for a long time.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just, Caleb-

-and that just might be the problem, isn’t it. Caleb’s his rebound. Fuck, Caleb and his stupid hyena are the rebound of his rebound. Actually, if he really thought about it, Caleb was the _rebound of his rebound of his rebound of his rebound of his rebound of his rebound-_

-Okay, so maybe Ian really needs to consider his life’s priorities. He glances down at the utterly content Adhair, and gives a wistful grin.

“There you are!” Debbie’s shrill greeting jolts Ian out of his musings. She’s wearing a leather jacket, a scarf wrapped around her neck. Not for the first time, Ian is confronted with the juxtaposition between the insecurity of Debbie’s youth with the woman standing before him. He raises a hand in greeting.

Debbie just quirks an eyebrow. “Great, now that we’ve found you, we can get started.” She declares, as Ian gathers Adhair and stands.

“Us?”

“Oh, shit, did I forgot to tell you? Fiona is here too!”

“Didn’t Fiona have a date?”

“She cancelled. ‘Family-time is more important’, she said.” Debbie beams at that, and somewhere, Teine gives a happy squeak.

Ian jolts when he realises he’s smiling back. Involuntarily. Even with Lip, sometimes he’d had to force a grin.

“So where are they?” Adhair asks. His body is literally vibrating, whether from the coffee or genuine excitement, Ian’s not sure. The swirling pit in his belly makes him nervous.

Debbie shrugs, glancing at her phone. “She says she’s on the way.” At that, they settle into awkward silence. Ian wants to find something, anything, to say, but he doesn’t know how. Outside the bounds of family dinner’s, he doesn’t know how to broach the distance between they’ve made. _If you can’t do this with Debbie, you’ll never be able to do it with Mickey_ is the mantra he repeats to himself.

Journey of a thousand miles and all that.

Thankfully, Ian’s saved from having to make painful conversation by the tell-tale appearance of a Meerkat, weaving his way between legs with a scampering sort of grace. “Well hello there,” Curam says, his lips twitching into a rueful grin.

“I seem to have lost Fiona, I don’t suppose you could help me find her?”

An eyebrow raise. “Why can’t we just have an _easy day out_?!” Debbie shouts. Ian just sighs

-

They find Fiona about twenty minutes later, having an impressive showdown with a man that really looks like he lives in the gym. Backwards cap, sweatshirt, shorts. _Behold, stereotype, thy name is dudebro._

Ian’s about to charge forward, but Debbie holds him back. “Wait,” she shakes her head, “let Fiona handle this.”

Fiona’s backed up against the wall, and the dudebro’s friends have formed a ring around the two, like some parody of a fighting ring. “Come on Fiona, you gave it to me before.” The man cajoles, his low voice pitching with lust.

Fiona just tosses her hair defiantly. “That was then, Mitchell, so buzz off.” Despite her disadvantageous position, there is still something dangerous about her, lethal in the way only a seasoned predator might be. Curam slips between her legs.

“Bitch, I don’t let every slut that begs me have _this._ I _want_ you.”

“That’s not going to cut it.”

“But I _need_ you!”

“You know what, okay-” Then Fiona grasps her shoe by the toe, and slams the heel straight into the man’s groin. There is a collective groan from all male bystanders as the man unceremoniously crumples to the ground. Without sparing him a backwards glance, she marches past the men, who collectively back away from her, towards Ian and Debbie, her expression melting into a friendly smile.

“Hey guys!” She says. “So what did I miss?”

As Fiona takes the show by the reins and shepherds them towards a videogame store, Adhair whispers to Debbie in a hushed undertone. “Why didn’t you let us help?”

“Because sometimes there are things you can only do yourself.” A simple answer.

It stays with him though, as they go from store to store, Fiona rifling through DVD’s to rent to show Ian, and Debbie thrusting shirt upon shirt on him. _There are things you can only do yourself._  

-

Something Ian realises very rapidly is just how out of his depth he is in this new world. It’s not that he hasn’t been paying attention, it’s just that his only link to the wider world in _years_ has been Caleb, and the newspaper. He has no idea how to hold himself when Debbie thrusts strange new jackets and shirts on him, citing them as ‘the latest fashion’. He doesn’t know how to respond when Fiona points out a new type of glasses that lets you access the internet. He doesn’t know what to say when he walks through a toy shop, and every single article is of something Ian doesn’t recognise.

He knows the latest news. He knows about the economy, but he doesn’t know anything else. Did he know that the gentrification of Canaryville was halted by a very, very angry daemon rampage that miraculously occurred whenever construction started? No. He should have known that. Did he know that presidents have come and gone? Vaguely, but the how’s and why’s escape him. He fights the urge to slam his head into a wall when he learns the details from Debbie.

Adhair isn’t quite so sheltered. He at least perks his ears in recognition at some of the gossip, but doesn’t elaborate further. Ian chalks it up to daemon gossip, but can’t fathom why Adhair wouldn’t share some of the details with him. When he asks, privately as Fiona and Debbie go buy drinks, Adhair just quirks a tired and bitter smile.

“I didn’t know you cared.”

Ian doesn’t know how to respond to that, and when Debbie and Fiona come back, he makes it a point to ask every single question that he can.

-

“Okay, so these are the new selection of phones.” The shop manager says with a sweeping gesture. Ian is in Block 37, gazing at row upon row of _technology._ Adhair lost his mouth somewhere between the Samsung Galaxy and the IPad. Ian’s is still lying at the front door.

“Alright, thank you.” Fiona says, shooing the shop manager away while Ian slowly regains the ability to speak. “So, never been to one of these in the past decade, huh.” She comments, idly picking up a random one and swiping through it. On the other side of the shop, Debbie is furiously trying to get the high score on the Bejewelled app on another random phone. Her face is screwed into strained attention, and on her shoulder, Teine whispers advice.

“Not really.” he shrugs, the words still coming out a little mangled. It’s not strictly true. The last time he was in a phone shop was-

_“Look, Ian. I need you to do me a favour and grow a fucking pair. If you keep your phone the cops can find us, so either you help me out here, or I drive you back. Your choice.”_

-a while ago.

“Right, so what’s your threshold?” Fiona asks, gently steering Ian back on track. Adhair creeps off Ian’s shoulder and onto the table, poking and prodding the phones with his snout.

“Threshold?”

“How much are you willing to spend on a phone? Because the prices _do_ vary with what you want to get.” Curam clarifies.

Ian hums thoughtfully. “I don’t spend much, so-maybe about a hundred? Maybe two?” He calculates mentally. Last he checked, that was more than enough, right?

Fiona pinches the bridge of her nose. Curam heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Ian, we need to have a little talk.”

There is a pair of hushed, harsh whispers, followed by silence.

 

 

“…They cost _WHAT?!”_

-

One freak-out and a shiny new Oppo later (thank god for Chinese knockoffs), Ian finds himself standing in front of the counter, watching his hard-earned cash float away into the ether. Adhair is back on his shoulder, looking about as depressed as Ian feels.

Debbie pats his shoulder in shared consolation. “Yeah, I know. I had that freak-out too the first time I had to buy a phone too. If you get the right model though, it can last for another decade, which I’m sure you can do, eh?” She jibes, elbowing him with a roguish smile. It does a lot to chase away the visions of his paycheck flying away on silver wings.

“You did?”

“Yeah, Teine refused to step back in an Apple Store for _weeks,_ isn’t that right?”

“… _yes._ ” Comes a tiny squeak from somewhere in the folds of Debbie’s scarf. She sighs.

“We’re working on getting her to be a little more talkative, but-” She explains, suddenly looking world-weary as she gestures to the little snout peeking out of her neck. In that moment, Ian suddenly realises how much she has grown. The impetuous little spitfire from Ian’s youth has somehow transformed into the well-adjusted woman standing before him. He shoves down a sudden upsurge of emotion, and fails utterly.

“You know, you’ve really grown.” He says, and then mentally berates himself.

Debbie jolts a little, looking at him oddly. “…I have?” She replies, cautiously. Ian does his best to ignore the _hope_ laced in her voice.

He nods. “Yeah, you really have.” He chokes a little, before soldiering on with what he’s really been intending to say, all this time.

“I’m proud of you.”

Debbie looks away then, swiping her thumb across her nose, and doesn’t respond. Ian doesn’t need to. He sees the smile beginning to form around the corners of her mouth, and he just can _feel it_.

A rift is beginning to mend.    


End file.
